Hostages
by s.ryn
Summary: Mary and Marshall find themselves hunting a sociopath as Mary faces the very real possibility of dying. M/M
1. Prologue

A/N: First IPS multiple-chapter project. Gah, so you'll have to forgive me if I fail miserably.

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**Prologue**

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She sat on the hospital bed, legs crossed awkwardly in the blue-and-white gown, a cup of jell-o in her left hand, a plastic spoon in her right. Her partner sat on the end of the bed, legs dangling off the edge; his black pants and jacket were in stark contrast to the rest of the room, all white and sanitary. Mary toyed idly with the idea that his black collared shirt made him look something between a priest and an angel of death—maybe both.

"Marshall, please," she asked, voiced strained. Her gaze was fixed on the green gelatin in her hand.

"I'm not sure I could do it, Mare," he replied after a beat, and she raised her head to meet his eyes; he knew he would eventually agree the moment their eyes met-- how many times had he seen that expression? The one she wore when she was sure that a suspect had a piece of information that she needed? "Your mom, your sister—even Raphael. It's not my place, Mare, I'm not even family."

"No," she snapped back, "you're different, but that doesn't mean you're worth any less. And you're the only one I can trust to make the decision, if you have to."

He didn't say anything, just looked at her with his brows furrowed, shoulders slumped. Mary vaguely wondered if he'd gotten any more sleep than she had in the past few weeks, and the dark shadows under Marshall's eyes answered her. He said, "Mare, I just—I just shot a man through the chest point-blank. I don't think I could take killing you, too, even if that's the right thing to do."

"Marshall," she finally said, taking a breath to calm her voice, "if this goes wrong… you know I couldn't stand spending the rest of my life hooked up to a machine and eating through a tube. If I don't come out of it, I want you to end it for me. You'd be…" she hesitated, searching for the right word, the key to appealing to his knight-in-shining-armor chivalry. "If I don't make it out okay, you'd be saving me, not killing me."

"Don't—" he began, voice sharper than he'd intended. Another pause, another breath, then in a calmer voice, "You'll be fine, Mare, don't say things like that. It's a perfectly routine--"

"I don't plan on dying, numbnuts, it's just a precaution. And you know if I asked my mom or Brandi to do it, they'd just hang on and cry until someone else made a decision for them. They'd probably just ask you, and you'd have to decide anyway, so I'm just saving them the trouble. Besides, they'd have to _know_ about this, and they're happily ignorant in New Jersey right now. And Raph—he would never let go." She dropped her spoon and jell-o on the nightstand and picked up the sheet of paper next to it, then shifted to sit next to her partner. "If you don't do this, I'll just sign a DNR, and they can't even _try_ to save me if I crash."

He signed.


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: :) Thanks so much, guys, for the reviews... erk, this is kind of difficult. I don't tend to write... long, multi-chaptered fics, and it's... different. One-shots can be totally serious or totally sappy because it's a small dose, but I'm trying not to make this one a complete downer or a complete ball of fluff... so criticism is deeply appreciated. Tell me what you'd like to see or what you think I should do differently because, dear God, I have no experience at this. (And feel completely free to tell me it sucks because, in all probability, it might.) xD Anyway, thanks for reading!

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**Chapter 1**

----One Month Earlier----

Taylor Goza's parents had always been a little more paranoid than the rest, but with good reason; the ten-year-old girl was the pride and joy of the forty-something Italian couple from Boston who had, five years ago, testified against a once-close friend and mafia man who had gunned down a police officer right in front of their house over a parking ticket. Ben, Brittany, and their five-year-old at the time were whisked into Witness Protection after testifying, when the FBI learned of a hit out on the family, called for by aforementioned mafia man. They became Ben, Brittany, and Taylor Gore and dropped into Santa Fe.

Which was why, when ten-year-old Taylor was out with her bicycle thirty minutes after curfew, Santa Fe marshals were called in.

After twenty-four hours and the discovery of her abandoned pink bicycle with the lavender streamers handing off the handlebars, the FBI was involved.

After twenty-nine hours, when the initial search turned up nothing but a pink shoe three blocks from Taylor Goza's home, Santa Fe's WitSec office relocated the frantic parents of Taylor Goza aka Taylor Gore to a motel seven miles from their home and called Stan McQueen.

Which was why, at three o'clock in the morning in the middle of June, despite her headache and lack of sleep, Mary was irritably tapping the dashboard of the WitSec-issued Avalanche, listening as Marshall filled her in on the details.

"Santa Fe PD has been tracking a man who abducts children, male and female, ages seven to thirteen," he rattled off the facts as he changed lanes on the highway, "Up 'til now, all they've got on him is an FBI shrink's profile and some duct tape with a partial print and a thirteen-year-old boy's epithelials."

"The family?" Mary prompted, massaging her head and trying to fight off the affects of the medication she had taken a few hours ago. She barely heard Marshall's quick description of the Gore family's circumstances upon entering Witness Protection for the pounding in her ears.

"Mary!" Marshall's voice cut through the car's dim interior and her own mental haze.

"What?!" she snapped back, annoyed.

He hesitated a moment, sending her a worried, sidelong glance, then said, "I've been calling your name for the past two minutes. You okay?"

"Fine. Tired."

"If it's the headaches again, you should go see your doctor. You know, headaches can be a symptom of a veritable cornucopia of—"

"I already went," Mary snapped again, more emphatically this time, "and I'm fine. I've got some painkillers. God, Marshall, if I knew you'd bitch about the headaches, I wouldn't have told you. I'm _fine._"

She saw him send her another glance but nod slowly, taking her word for it; he knew just as well as she did that she could take care of herself, and he let her. _But what if I'm not fine?_ It was this confidence that he afforded her that made her dead certain that he couldn't, shouldn't, and _wouldn't_ find out. About any of it.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, for which Mary was eternally grateful, and by the time they pulled up to the red brick building in downtown Santa Fe, Mary's headache had subsided to a dull soreness in the back of her head.

They were directed into a Santa Fe PD conference room that was full to the brim with men in suits—every person in the room carried a badge and a gun. The large table in the middle was covered in maps, pictures, and plastic bags of evidence. Along the far wall was pinned the pictures of eleven children.

A tall man in a black suit stood and greeted Mary and Marshall when they pushed into the room at six o'clock in the morning and stood to shake Marshall's hand. Mary bee-lined for the table of evidence and was analyzing a map with red circles around certain exits on the Interstate before the man had finished introducing himself as the chief inspector of Santa Fe WitSec.

"You're just in time; we're dividing up, and we need a team on a suspect's house. That'll be you two, starting this morning, after we brief you on the details of the case," Chief Inspector Donald David told them before addressing the group. "These two are U.S. Marshals Miller and Shepard from Albuquerque." Then, "This bastard's going to mess up, and we're going to catch him at it. We'll keep you all updated, but for now, keep your eyes open."

Recognizing dismissal, the room emptied quietly and quickly. When the room was empty except for the chief inspector and Mary and Marshall, he briefed them.

"We're looking at a twenty-four hour stakeout at our main suspect's house. His name is George Shaw, and he's a teacher at the local high school—a history teacher. The elementary school gets out the same time the high school does, and nine of the eleven missing were from Wyatt Elementary. That, and the fact that he was on leave for the disappearances of the three students who disappeared who weren't from Wyatt makes him a person of interest. He was arrested in '97 on drug charges, then again in '98 for violating a restraining order against an ex-girlfriend and her three-year-old son. They suspect that he's part of a child smuggling operation that includes Illinois, Mexico, and Chile, which is why Interpol is now involved. Anyway, I've got teams watching the high school teacher parking lot and the elementary school, got a team tracking the latest little girl--"

"Taylor," Marshall interjected sharply. "Her name is Taylor Gore." Mary looked up from the stack of pictures she was flipping through—all of little children's items fallen haphazardly on the sidewalk or grass—and saw that Marshall's jaw was a little more firmly set that usual.

"Right," Inspector David amended quickly, "Taylor. I've got her assigned marshals running down every lead and a team of marshals from Amarillo taking their caseload for now, but I need the two of you on the day shift stakeout at Shaw's house. The night team is from the FBI, but we're short on manpower, so we had to use those idiots. You're taking over at nine, and we don't have enough vehicles to provide you another one, so you'll have to use whatever car you drove. You can rest up until then, I'll give you the address."

They left the Santa Fe police station an hour later, armed with a folder full of pictures, addresses, and reports they were instructed to read to familiarize themselves with the case.

"Bastard," Mary grumbled under her breath as she climbed into the truck, nose in the files they were given. "Little kids. Picks on _little kids._" Marshall said nothing because nothing had to be said.

They had breakfast at a small diner on Rodeo Rd., each of them ordering then retreating into a stack of police reports as they waited for their breakfasts to come. Neither said a word until the waitress—a pretty brunette not over thirty—brought them their plates, put a hand on Marshall's shoulder, and asked him sweetly, "Anything else I can get you, hon?"

Marshall grinned and was about to respond, probably with some random bit of trivia, when Mary, without looking over the top of the folder she was exploring, said roughly, "Yeah, we could use a few napkins. My partner here drools like a rabid dog when he eats."

"Hey, I--"

But the waitress had retreated.

"What was that?!" Marshall asked, exasperated but grinning.

Still without looking up, Mary replied, "I was just helping you keep it zipped up. Besides, the last thing I need is a bunch of kids making out in the back of the truck."

"I wasn't--"

"Uh-huh."

Marshall sighed, knowing he couldn't win as he dug into his pancakes, practically inhaling them after the long, foodless drive from Albuquerque. Mary looked at her food and felt her stomach churn mutinously as the thought of digesting something hit her. She went back to reading police reports and just pushed her plate toward Marshall when he was done with his.

"You're not going to eat?" he asked, sounding like he just saw pigs fly by on the horizon.

"No."

Silence as Marshall waited for an explanation. There was none.

"Mare, you okay?"

"Oh, for the _love of God_," she slammed the folder down on the table, causing a couple two booths down to look at them, startled, "I'm _fine_, and if you don't want the food, don't eat it. I'm concentrating on catching a pedophile, and if you ask me that one more time, I'm going to put a bullet through your foot." She glared at him as he stared back, bewildered. After an intense moment, she roughly went back to scanning the pages of the police report, and after another, he picked up his fork and ate her flapjacks slowly.

When they got up to leave, she didn't comment about the extra-large tip he left for the waitress, instead saying impatiently, "Come on—we've got a scumbag to catch."


	3. Chapter 2

They arrived outside George Shaw's residence at approximately 8:50am, ten minutes before schedule. Marshall called the FBI team sitting on the house to let them know of the shift change, and not twenty seconds later, a ratty turquoise van pealed out from in front of the one story red brick house, and Mary and Marshall were alone.

"This is Marshall Miller and Mary Sheppard on duty," Marshall said into the small black radio affixed to the dashboard, "eyes on suspect number 939081."

"Check that," replied a disjointed male voice from the radio. "Zero nine hundred, Miller-Shepard checking in." Pause, a ruffling of papers. "Suspect left for work at approximately zero seven hundred this morning, and we've got another team staking out his car and the high school; the house is vacant at the moment, but keep your eyes open for anyone else going in or coming out. Radio in with any updates."

"This ought to be fun," Mary grumbled, taking off her seat belt, settling into her seat and putting her feet on the dashboard, a habit which annoyed Marshall because it meant that he would probably have to wipe off the shoe prints later. Which, of course, was exactly why she did it.

"Especially with you all perky and upbeat in the mornings."

"You're an idiot."

"Duly noted."

They spent the rest of the morning in the black Avalanche parked across the street from George Shaw's house. At approximately eleven fifty-two, a man with dark hair, a navy baseball cap, and sunglasses came by to stuff a handbill in the doors of the neighborhood, which was innocent enough, but still, Marshall updated Santa Fe PD on the detail, and an undercover agent was sent to walk along the street and casually extract the handbill from the door.

Agent Peter Douglas did not want twenty percent off his annual lawn care bill, and the advertisement was discarded.

At 12:20pm, with the Santa Fe sun beating down on the truck, Mary snapped shut the folder she had been going through and said, "God, couldn't this guy have lived in Maine or something? It's like an oven in here." She had long ago taken off her jacket and blouse and was curled up in her seat in a tank top.

Also dressed thusly, Marshall replied, "Evil knows neither boundaries nor weather patterns." He had long since finished reading the case files and had, for some bizarre reason Mary couldn't even begin to fathom, taken apart the car's CD player and was rewiring it using the toolbox he kept under the backseat.

"What I wouldn't give to just go up to this son of a bitch and shoot off parts of his body until he tells us where the girl is," she muttered, yawning and stretching.

Marshall raised his eyebrow, looked at her, and paused with a screwdriver in the hole in the controls where the CD player had been and said, "Hm, this coming from the Olympic gold medalist in subtlety. You know, if you're tired, you can sleep while I watch the house."

"So you can draw on my face while I'm unconscious? Don't think so, not a chance."

By 12:30pm, Mary was snoring softly, head against Marshall's shoulder so she didn't sweat and stick to the leather seats. He fiddled on with the CD player.

She awoke with her head in his lap to the coarse sound of the radio.

"Suspect leaving local HS, presumably heading home. We've got a team tracking him. Miller-Sheppard still on his house?"

Gingerly and without having realized that his partner was awake, Marshall reached over the steering wheel to press the button on the radio. "Affirmative."

"All right, eyes open, people."

Mary shifted and turned, blinking up at Marshall, who grinned ruefully. "Did that wake you?"

"Time?" she asked, ignoring him and rubbing her eyes.

"Five-thirty."

"_Seriously?_" Mary demanded, surprised, bolting up and immediately regretting it as bright spots overwhelmed her vision and her stomach turned viciously. Her hand quickly went to her mouth as a preemptive move against anything that might come up as her brain thumped mercilessly against her skull.

"Mare?" Worry.

"Got up too fast." She took a deep breath to clear her head, and it didn't help. "I've been asleep for the past five hours?"

"Yeah, but Mare, if you don't feel--" Marshall began, reaching out to hesitantly to put a hand against her forehead, as if checking for fever.

"Headache," she replied, squeezing her eyes closed against the heavy pounding, leaning into Marshall's cool hand.

A pause while Marshall juggled disbelief at her words, irritation at the disbelief, and worry despite both. Worry won out. With a sigh he said, "Come here," and turned her face toward him.

"What--?!"

"Just relax," he cut her off, taking her face in both his hands. He pressed his thumbs against her temples and rubbed gently in circles, then pressed his fingers against her forehead with light pressure, then ran his thumbs over her eyelids. "Relax," he said again, and she couldn't help but listen, sagging tiredly against the car door despite her nap.

When she felt his fingers pause against her eyelids five minutes later and tense, she could see straight again. She turned her head toward George Shaw's house as the garage door opened and his Toyota Corolla pulled in.

"Looks like maggot's back in the dog crap," she muttered.

A chuckle, then Marshall asked softly against her ear, "Better?"

"Yes." She pulled her face somewhat hesitantly from his grasp, ear tingling from his breath, then gave a somewhat foreign, "Thanks." He just smiled crookedly.

At 7:30pm, a gray Chevy pulled up and parked two houses down and across the street from Shaw's red brick lair. Two minutes later, the radio came to life and croaked, "Brown-Anderson here to relieve you, Miller-Sheppard. Report back tomorrow at zero seven hundred."

They pulled out of the residential neighborhood with the relief that always followed a fruitless day of bored watchfulness and into a motel five miles away with the "T" in the sign unlit, the pole for the sign covered in profanities courtesy of red spray paint and rowdy teenagers, and the parking lot littered with garbage. "And dear old Uncle Sam couldn't even spring for a Motel 6 or something," Mary muttered as they parked in front of the office. "We love you too, America."

Marshall checked in and came out of the office with key cards to two joined rooms. They moved to the other side of the building then carried their respective overnight bags into their rooms. Just as Mary was beginning to big through her bag looking for a change of clothes, Marshall's head popped through the adjoining door, and he asked, "Pizza? Though I'd pick us up some."

"Beer," was Mary's reply.

"I live to serve, Your Majesty."

A shower was an absolute must after a day of sitting in a car in the hot New Mexican sun with the air conditioning off. Mary took her time standing under the water, just a little bit too cool after the oven she spent the day in, feeling if not refreshed then at least clean when she stepped out, wrapped in a towel, stumbling slightly on the edge of the tub. She shook out her hair, very aware that she was dripping as she made her way to the bed where her change of clothes were, mildly amused-concerned that the edges of the destination were blurring a little with each step and that her knees felt like gravy.

She was halfway to the bed when he legs gave out, and for a moment it was like she was out of her body, looking at her own crumpled form on the floor from another perspective wondering _who is she, and why is she shaking so hard?_ The sensation passed quickly, and Mary was back in her own head, wrapped in a towel on the floor, hands shaking too hard to even hold her own throbbing skull.

_Where the Hell were those painkillers?_

She tried to open her eyes and find her bag, but the moment she did, the too-bright colors of everything around her and the sick glare of the lamp next to the bed made everything in the room whirl, and she shut them again.

"Mary!" Marshall's voice came from a lifetime away, as did his touch, but she was vaguely sure that she was being lifted then put down on something softer than the floor. Her entire world shook, however, when he jerked her shoulder roughly and asked wildly, "Mare? Mare, what's wrong?" She forced her eyes open if only to avoid having him shake her again and making her feel like she was stuck on a tilt-o-whirl. _Focus on his eyes, those deep, sky blues._

"E-E-Eletriptan," she breathed, finding herself curled up against Marshall's shoulder on the bed. She tried to point to her bag but aborted that operation halfway through when she realized that her hand shook to hard to keep it in one place long enough to point and trying to just made the bridge of her nose sting. She shut her eyes again and managed to choke out, "Front pouch, two pills."

She was all too aware of her head shifting when Marshall moved abruptly to unzip her bag but was nonetheless grateful when she felt something pressed into her mouth, and then liquid poured slowly to help her wash it down.

The effects were not immediate, and it could have been an eternity she spent curled into a tight ball against her partner, fighting off and trying to ignore everything her senses registered because it was just too much to deal with—sight, sound, smell. The only thing she was comfortable with was the gentle stroking against her hair; when the ache had subsided enough for her to breath easily again and her hands had stopped shaking, she kept her eyes closed for a few extra moments to savor the peace that came with that action.

"Mary?" Marshall whispered cautiously when he felt her shift in his arms so that her head was in the crook of his neck. He was still running his fingers through her still-damp hair.

He _felt_ her pause, _felt_ her check herself, and _felt_ her make a decision.

"It's… stress. And I'm tired; some rest should do the trick. Um, the doctor said."

And it was her turn to feel him tense, feel him register her lie, and _feel_ him decide to accept without question what she told him _because he trusts me that much and trusts that I can take care of myself. _

_Oh, God, Marshall, you're an idiot._

"All right... You up for food?" he asked finally. She silently noted the long-forgotten pizza box lying on the floor near the connecting door next to the six pack of beer. "You didn't eat breakfast, haven't eaten all day. You keep this up, and you'll lose your food baby, and you know how the men all love your extra pounds."

"Jackass," she laughed affectionately, pinching his arm in retaliation. He didn't say anything about the pinch being less vicious than usual—as if she didn't have the strength to abuse him any harder—and flinched for her benefit. She let him pull him arms away from around her and retrieve the beer and pizza, and they ate in companionable silence on the bed.

"Shower," Marshall sighed after he put away three quarters of the pizza and half of the beers. "You change and get some sleep. I'll wake you in the morning."

He got up and may have been less than graceful when bolting out of the room—Mary couldn't be sure because she was distracted by the quick and sloppy kiss his planted in her forehead before he left.

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"It's been over forty-eight hours," Mary sighed in frustration, legs propped up against the steering wheel—she had stolen the keys from Marshall's hands before he could denounce her driving—at 7:00am. "I'm going crazy just waiting here… Her chances of survival just went from… from…"

"Probable to slim, I know," Marshall replied, just as agitated as they watched the gray-haired history teacher lock his front door and make his way to his garage. He was an average height with small, brown eyes tilted upward, a potbelly, and a pasty complexion. They watched as he opened his garage door, got into his Corolla, and backed out.

"He's left the premises," Marshall said into the radio as the car drove down the street.

"A team will tail him to the school," came the reply. As usual, Marshall put the radio back on the stand on the dashboard. He looked at his partner, who was staring intently out the window toward the house.

"Is Shaw married? Family?" she asked out of the blue, but Marshall had long since learned not to question her process.

"No. Lives alone."

"Any other properties? Vehicles?"

"Not that the feds know of. Why, what are you thinking?"

She turned towards Marshall and fixed him with an intense hazel look, head tilted and the corner of her mouth folded up. "Did you notice now big his garage is?"

"It's a two-car garage. Like all the garages on this street."

"Yes," she said impatiently, "but when he pulled out, you could see another car. A white van."

Marshall frowned. "You sure?"

She shot him a dirty look at his questioning her observations. She fiddled in her pocket and extracted the orange prescription bottle, popped two pills in her mouth—ignored Marshall when he asked, "Didn't you already take two this morning?"--, washed them down with water, and started the car.

"What are you _doing_? We're supposed to watch the house, Mare," Marshall asked, incredulous as Mary drove halfway up the street and parked.

"We _are_ going to watch," she replied nonchalantly, getting out of the car. In disbelief, Marshall followed after her as she started back toward Shaw's house.

"Mare, we don't have a warrant, anything you find won't be admissible in court, _what the heck are you thinking?_" he demanded seeing her walk up to the door and jiggle the doorknob.

She grinned at him mischievously and twittered innocently, "Mr. Shaw left his front door ajar when he went to work this morning, and it was suspicious, so we thought we'd check it out. It's not _our_ fault that he left his door open—anyone could have stepped in, and we had to search the premises to make sure it was safe."

"I- you- what-" Marshall sputtered, half-amused and half-flabbergasted. He licked his lips and asked in a strained voice, "And how are you going to let yourself in without breaking down the door? Or leaving any other signs of forced entry?"

Mary smirked again, and Marshall decided that perhaps he shouldn't have asked. He pointedly looked the other way when she jimmied the front porch window open—"Learned this when I was a kid, and my mom kept forgetting the house key"—and eased herself into the house. A few seconds later, the front door opened, and Mary leaned against with the same smirk. "Come on in, I insist."

George Shaw's home was alarmingly _clean_, unlike any other bachelor's home either Mary or Marshall had ever seen—and this was saying something because _Marshall, you're like a housewife—who in their right mind would alphabetize their spices?_

They did a quick search of all the rooms in the house, which turned up nothing _not even a few damn dust bunnies_. When they let themselves into the garage, however—

"I told you there was a van," Mary said triumphantly as she flipped on the garage lights. Indeed, there was a gleaming white van sitting in the garage, front windows tinted.

"Touché," Marshall breathed, following Mary as she approached the vehicle. They both carefully made their ways around the van, surveying every inch multiple times, looking over and under before they finally congregated at the back by the doors.

Without a word, Marshall took one door handle and Mary the other, and they flung the doors open at the same time to find—

"The Hell?" Mary hissed, looking into the back of the van. "What the--"

"I have no idea," Marshall told her, looking into the carpeted and padded truck; the floor of the van was covered in a fuzzy blue carpeting—the thick, soft kind used in bathrooms—and the walls were a plush, electric violet padding that was almost three inches thick.

Mary pulled herself into the small space, edging through the heavy carpet on hands and knees to the far corner, then crawling back with her eyes glued to the floor.

"Find anything?" Marshall asked patiently while she searched through the fibers of the rug.

"No, not--" A pause as Mary froze to the spot. "Marshall… Marshall, what color were the streamers on Taylor Gore's bicycle?"

"Uh… lavender."

Mary scrambled out of the back of the van and held he hand out to her partner; in it, a single strip of shiny lavender plastic. Marshall looked from it to her and back. "This is enough for a search war-"

They both froze, eyes wide, as the garage door began to open.


	4. Chapter 3

A/N: So sorry for not updating for so long! I just moved (to NY!) and have been so busy... but here's an extra-long chapter to make up for it! Enjoy, and please R/R! :D

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**Chapter 3**

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Marshall was the first to regain his footing after the face of the gawking history teacher greeted them from behind the windshield of the Corolla. He flashed his badge and motioned for Shaw to get out of his car, and Mary took the moment to shove the lavender streamer into her pocket.

George Shaw was angry the moment he stepped out of his rundown car. "Who're—what the—how the Hell—"

"U.S. Marshal Marshall Miller," Marshall interrupted the blubbering man, "we came to check up on a… disturbance call. The… front door was ajar, and a worried passerby called it because he thought there may have been a robbery."

The small brown eyes darted around the garage, landing on the still-open door of the van the moment Marshall and Mary remembered the same thing. _Damn._ "I- you- what are you doing in my _garage?!_ I didn't leave—_why is my van open?!_"

"Had to check every angle, sir," Marshall replied smoothly and with a respectable nod. "Can't say we found any signs of forced—"

"The Hell!" George Shaw veritably shrieked, voice a bit abnormally high pitched, "Since when do marshals respond to robberies?! You all think I'm an idiot?!"

"Crossed my mind, yeah," Mary retorted, glowering.

Shaw continued, "You think I don't notice the—the cars following me?! Don't think I know about the FBI looking into my employment records, huh? What about interviewing my boss?!" He was angrily gesturing, waving his arms wildly at them, eyes still darting, face red, and advancing on the two marshals. "Well, you've got nothing on me! " The old man jabbed a finger at Marshall's chest, but before it had the chance to make contact, he was violently jerked out of the way by a less-than-pleased Mary, who yanked him away from her partner with a rough pull on his sleeve and slammed him into the nearest wall.

"What the—"

"You listen to me, jackass," Mary snarled at the man who withered before her rough handling and glittering gaze, "you're a pedophile, and we know it." Marshall looked away at the far wall interestedly. _Did your partner exert any undue force toward the suspect? Nope, not that I saw._ "You're a disgusting, cowardly dirt bag; you can't handle a grown woman? Or do they all already know you're not man enough? Have to go to little kids? You're just a scumbag who should have his balls shot off."

Shaw just squeaked at the angry blond woman hissing into his face, taking a step back while eying her gun, but Mary backed off and stepped back next to Marshall. "Come on, let's call in the big guns to castrate him."

"Your wish, my command," was the reply.

They stepped out of the garage into the blazing Albuquerque sun, George Shaw bumbling incoherently behind them. Halfway up the street when they were out of earshot and sight of the house, Mary said without looking at her partner, "I shouldn't have done that—scared him. He might run with the girl."

"You were angry."

"He has this little _girl_ who WitSec is supposed to be protecting," Mary continued, snarling, "yeah, that pisses me off. And—Hell knows what they're doing to her. This _little girl_ who probably hasn't even lost all her baby teeth yet. " They reached the truck and Mary looked to her partner over the hood. Marshall met her gaze evenly, calmly, waiting for the storm to pass. "I'm going to bust his ass."

"You will," was his only reply, and he slid into the passenger seat as she, too, got into the already-sweltering car. As she buckled her seat belt, he gave her elbow an awkward but calming and reassuring squeeze.

She ignored it.

It took them half an hour to radio into Santa Fe PD and get a replacement team to sit on the red brick house, another twenty minutes to drive to the police department, and two to get results back from forensics that positively matched the lavender streamer to the one on Taylor Gore's bicycle. Then, while Mary paced like a caged cat and Marshall watched tensely, the ADA hunted down a judge to sign the warrant to search George Shaw's home, which took twice as long because it was a Saturday—_is __that__ why the suspect returned to his home?!—_and because of the marshals' questionable discovery of the evidence. But assistant district attorney Courtney Carr flashed the pictures of eleven little children, and the warrant was eventually signed.

So it was well into the afternoon that Mary pounded on the door of the red one-story and demanded, "Open up!" Silence. "We've got a search warrant, Shaw, open up _now_, or we're busting down the door." Silence as she, Marshall, the two marshals assigned to the Gore family, three FBI agents, two local police officers, and a truck full of forensics people bristled. With a glare and a quick jerk of the head, Mary moved aside as Marshall drew his weapon and gave the door a good hard kick; it came down easily as wood splintered and broke around the lock.

Right behind Marshall, Mary followed him quickly into the house, gun drawn, and nearly toppled over him when he came to a dead stop.

"Marshall, what—" Mary, too, stopped, and her mouth formed a furious 'o' as she surveyed the inside of the house. What was a perfectly furnished house hours ago was completely empty. The sofas were gone, the perfectly vacuumed rugs, the dishes and utensils.

"What the—where is everything?!" demanded the African American marshal behind Mary, Taylor Gore's primary WitSec marshal; she appeared to have not slept for a few days. She looked frantically behind the door, as if maybe the entire house's furnishings may have been hidden there, then began to pace. Her partner, a wiry and young blonde man, looked on worriedly.

"Radio the team on the house, ask if they saw Shaw leaving," came an order from one of the FBI suits, who had unabashedly rushed into the rest of the house, followed by multiple calls of, "Clear!" Neither Mary nor Marshall had to check the garage to know that the van was gone.

Without waiting for the reply from the stake-out team, Mary turned on her heel and was out the door. Marshall crashed into the pacing marshal, Akwanee, in his move to follow his partner.

She had walked past the truck and was half walking, half running up the street, and by the time Marshall caught up with her, her neck was shiny with sweat.

"Mary—Mary, wait," Marshall made a grab for her arm, but she elbowed him in the ribs and kept going until she reached the dark blue sedan sitting innocuously on the side of the street, windows tinted. She wrenched open the driver side door and—without concern or thought as to why the door wasn't locked—made a grab for the agents inside, then froze before she actually bodily dragged anyone out.

Marshall broke into a run to Mary's side and drew his weapon the moment he saw her tense by the driver's side door, but the sight there made him freeze, too, for a full minute. Then, he reached past Mary into the car to place his index and middle fingers against the necks of one of the FBI agents unconscious against the seat, feeling for the gentle throbbing of life.

Nothing.

"They're dead," he said plainly, nothing but shock registering yet. Still in the state of disbelief, he circled around the idling car to the exhaust pipe and crouched down to look through the cylinder.

When he circled back around to Mary's side, she hadn't moved at all, staring at the face of gray-haired Special Agent Franks and barely breathing. "Someone plugged the exhaust. Carbon monoxide poisoning, probably."

Silence.

"Mare?" Marshall asked bracingly, a hand on her shoulder.

Silence.

"Mary…?"

"Dammit!" Then, without preamble, Mary raised her fist and jammed it with all her force at the car door's window, the glass shattering into a rain that threw sunlight in sparkles, some of the pieces falling to the floor with delicate _clinks_, others embedding themselves into Mary's fist. She raised her fist again toward the back door window, but Marshall caught her wrist half an inch from the glass.

"What the Hell, Mary?!" Marshall gasped, pulling her backwards away from the car and looking at her bloody fist disbelievingly. "What are you—" He stopped suddenly as he realized that the shaking of her arm was involuntary and looked at her face, which was a mask of rancor, eyes intense. She was crying, shaking in anger, and trying to pull away from him; he held her wrist as if his life depended on it, pulling her against him with it.

"Get away from me," she snapped viciously, pushing against his chest to get him to let go. He didn't. "Marshall, get the Hell **away**, or I'm going to—to—**dammit, Marshall, what's wrong with you?!**"

He held her tighter, keeping her bleeding hand out of her struggles to get away from him and said, gently, "Think about what you're doing."

She sputtered like a tea kettle in fury before retorting, "What do you _mean_, think?! Huh? I've been a marshal for how long now?! You think- you think you've got the right to- to- to tell me how to do my job, jackass? I don't _need_ you, Marshall, and you can leave like my da- you can leave whenever you want, and I'll do just fine _my_ witnesses without you. I'll do better, godammit! Let. Me. Go!"

He rested his cheek against her thrashing head, said quietly into her hair, "It's not your fault. You didn't know he would run. He might have even if you didn't lose your temper with him earlier. He still would have had warning that we were onto him. He still would've—would've done this."

"Marshall, I don't need your—your—oh, _God,_ Marshall," and then, just like that, she was something not completely solid in his arms, and he rubbed her back thinking that she was finally accepting his comfort—only to feel the hand he was not holding go up to rub her temple, see her clench her jaw against the pain in her head he had seen so many times before.

Marshall swallowed the desire to drag her to the hospital _now, because you are not, not, __**not**__ okay_ but settled instead on easing her onto the sidewalk and reaching into her jacket pocket for the little orange vial of pills and putting two in her mouth. He held her head against his shoulder, stroking her blond hair until her shaking stopped.

By the time his cell phone rang, Mary was able to get back on her feet and regard her mauled hand as Marshall answered.

"Where are you?! There's nothing _in_ this house, anymore, marshal. We're conducting a search, but I think we may be lost him, and our stakeout team isn't responding."

"That's because they're dead," Marshall replied tersely, his eyes on his partner who steadfastly avoided his gaze by picking at the glass in her wound. Without another word to the FBI lackey on the phone, he snapped it shut and said, "Let's go." Without waiting for her protests, he took her firmly by the elbow and guided Mary toward the direction of the WitSec-issued truck parked in front of Shaw's house. He ignored the looks of the SFPD officers who stared at Mary's hand and got into the driver's seat.

He tossed the first aid kit in the back of the truck to Mary then silently fumbled around until he had his laptop open and was typing rapidly.

Mary watched the man she had worked with for over three years surreptitiously; she had not been thinking straight when she put her fist through the window, was driven by a sinking horror in her gut that the way she worked—temperamentally, impulsively, passionately—had not only failed her and caused the suspect to get away with _everything_ but also killed two FBI agents, as worthless as they were. It did not hurt then, when the adrenaline had been pumping through her veins, and all she heard was her blood boiling; it did not hurt now, though it looked to her like it should. She roughly picked glass out of her knuckles and mentally cursed herself because she would inevitably need to go to the hospital later and get stitches while mentally stewing over the uncanny way her partner—without a word from her—had understood exactly her guilt. And had not backed away from her even when she asked him to.

She did not thank him, nor did she apologize because their relationship did not require any of it. Instead, she asked coarsely as she finished getting all the glass she could out and pulled a bandage over her hand tightly, "What're we going to do now?"

Marshall just mumbled to himself for a few seconds.

"Hey, doofus!"

"Shh!" She was not used to being shushed by anyone, much less her partner, who should have known better. A threat to shove some unpleasant things in his various orifices was halfway out of her mouth when Marshall amended quickly, "I'm tracking Shaw." That caught Mary off guard.

"How?!"

Marshall looked away from the blinking screen of his laptop for a moment and gave her a tight smile, gaze wavering for a moment on her hand; the blood was already beginning to soak through the white cotton. "I put a… a tracking device under the front fender of the van this morning."

Mary stared at Marshall, who went back to typing. "I think I may love you right now," she said and saw Marshall hesitate, surprised, over the keyboard for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening, but he did not look at her and instead continued his rapid keystrokes.

"Almost… done. I'm loading the information onto the GPS on the truck…"

"You don't have a GPS on the truck," Mary told Marshall, confused, but he just grinned in earnest. Without a word, he reached toward the center console and hit a button near the CD player, which flipped up to reveal the shiny, new screen of a GPS. All she could do was gawk.

"I installed it when you were asleep yesterday," Marshall admitted with another sheepish smile and none-too-little pride. "I thought it'd be fun to experiment with it."

"You're… absolutely insane."

"Guilty," Marshall replied without missing a beat, pushing at the buttons near the GPS screen. A blinking red dot appeared on the screen.

"And, again, I think I may love you and your mindblowingly annoying dork heritage."

That pause again before he said, "Let's go, it's got a signal."

He started the truck and was pulling out of the neighborhood when Mary finally had an epiphany and asked, "Did you get a warrant for the tracking device?"

"You know my philosophy-- Don't Ask, Don't Tell," Marshall admitted, then went on, "Did you know that Charles Moskos, a Northwestern University military sociologist helped Clinton draft the Don't Ask Don't Tell policy regarding--"

"God, I find you so hot right now."

"I know."

They followed the cool, female voice of the GPS for thirty minutes, weaving through the streets and further and further away from downtown Santa Fe, ignoring the constant ringing of their cell phones, undoubtedly six different branches of law enforcement looking for the MIA marshals. When they finally pulled into an alleyway behind an old storage warehouse, Marshall finally flipped open his phone.

"Marshall."

Even in the passenger seat, Mary could hear Stan's furious voice demand, "Where are you, Inspector?! I have the FBI, SFPD, SF homicide, SF WitSec, and the attorney general breathing down my neck. Is there a _reason_ why you did not stay at the scene of a double homicide of—"

"Stan," Marshall interrupted in his calm, laid-back voice, and Mary was slightly amused by the totally different direction this conversation would have taken had she answered; undoubtedly, it would involve bad blood and bitching. Marshall said, "Mary and I have tracked down the main suspect, George Shaw."

"How-"

"GPS, Stan," he said quickly, then, "We're at the Galaxy Storage Warehouse on Trades West Road. Have Santa Fe send some backup, maybe a sniper or two."

"Inspector, don't go in without backup!"

"I won't—Mary's here, and we technically have jurisdiction here," Marshall chirped cheerfully.

"Marshall, I'm serious, you know that's--" Marshall snapped the phone shut unceremoniously and tossed it to the back of the truck.

At Mary's raised eyebrow, he explained, "Well, we're going to Hell for leaving the scene of a double homicide, might as well… do it with gusto."

"You mean I'm dragging you to Hell with me," and Mary was only half-joking as they reached toward the back of the truck for the Kevlar vests. Mary's hand was starting to ache, but she snapped the vest on and checked her gun anyway.

"Happily skipping along beside you, not being dragged," was the retort as Marshall checked the firearm strapped to his boot.

They pressed against the red brick side of the building as they made their way toward the small side door, Marshall following Mary because she always needed to chase the action, and he always needed to chase her, and that was how they worked.

At the door, they took opposite sides, facing each other. Marshall yelled through the closed but rusty-looking door, "U.S. marshals, open up!"

Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Mary put her hand on the knob and turned it; they made eye contact, _yes, it's unlocked_, gave a curt nod, _you go first, I'll back you up_, and then Mary was barreling through the door ordering with her best I-am-a-marshal-and-I-am-going-to-arrest-your-ass voice, "Drop your weapons, U.S. Marshals!"

The warehouse had a huge ceiling, and huge wooden crates were stacked along the walls and in rows all around the room—the worst type of situation for finding and apprehending a suspect, but, Mary mused, _what in my life is easy?_

She stayed in a tense position, weapon ready and feeling rather bulking in her bulletproof vest, keeping her back to the wall and eyes like a hawk scanning the cracks between boxes.

"Hey, the van," Marshall said, weapon also poised and nodding his head toward the center of the room. Indeed, past a large stack of wooden crates was the white van, idling softly, back doors still open. No one was in the driver's seat.

"He's still in here," Mary hissed, moving with her head ducked down toward the van. "The girl might be in there."

"I've got you covered," Marshall assured her unnecessarily, catching her eye, his steady gaze and familiar features giving her some sort of certainty in what she was doing. _I wonder how he does that,_ Mary thought idly as she broke out into a run toward the van, ducking between and behind boxes at random intervals because neither of them knew if George Shaw was armed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marshall follow her lead.

She reached the van a little out of breath but managed to stay low to the ground and carefully pressed herself against the side of the van, giving Marshall enough time to do the same. Eye contact, another coordinated nod, then they both swiveled around the side of the open door and faced whatever was inside with weapons at the ready.

"U.S. marshals, drop your weapons," Mary said for what seemed like the fiftieth time that day. However, the moment the words were out of her mouth, she quickly holstered her weapon—trusting Marshall's vigilance—and climbed into the back of the trust to check on the limb body of the little Italian girl who lay on her side unconscious, bound and gagged. She put her fingers on the girl's neck and released a breath that she didn't know she was holding upon feeling a pulse.

"She's alive," Mary informed her partner, pushing the girl's hair out of her face; she had a bruise on her temple, her hair was tangled, and the smell of urine was undeniable, but at least she was alive, and that was enough. "I think I smell chloroform."

A shot rang out just as Mary was moving to adjust the girl in her arms, then another, then another. Marshall ducked away, and she heard him yell, "Freeze!" as he took off, but all of a sudden, Mary found herself without cover. Unthinkingly, she unbuckled her vest and draped it over the little girl to protect her from stray bullets that got past the metal sides of the van and _where was that backup when you needed it?_

Mary bolted out of the van and shut the door behind her to protect the girl from the imminent firefight, looking around for Marshall. She caught a flash of red between two stacks four crates high, then another flash of black as Marshall took after the shooter. She, too, ran in that direction, dodging wooden crates left and right, and she lost track of Marshall with all the ducking and weaving they were all doing, and from that point on, she could only follow the sound of footsteps and crashes as crates were pushed over.

She was running next to an exterior wall when she heard another scuffle and crash a row over, and she rounded the corner quickly to join the melee, only to trip roughly as she did so, landing with a unpleasant crack with her head against the plywood side of a crate. Mary was about to swear at the sudden pain that came with the landing when she saw _what_ she tripped over.

George Shaw's empty, brown eyes were inches from hers in the position she landed, an oozing bullet hole in his forehead. Mary scrambled up; if Shaw was dead, who was Marshall…?

She would think about it later. Kicking the body aside, she flung after the sounds of a fight; after rounding another corner back toward the van—_god, no, not the little girl… Marshall, lead him away from the van_--, then another, she spotted her partner in pursuit of a shorter, lanky man with black hair and, more notably, a gun. The man darted past the van, firing a shot over his shoulder at the marshals, then delved back into a row of crates, pushing over some so that Marshall had to dodge the huge falling boxes and climb over them. Mary, instead of climbing over boxes, ran into the row next to the one Marshall and his target entered, anticipating that she could head the man off if she got to the end of the row first.

She was five feet from the end of the row and at full momentum when, with a horrendous creak, the boxes stacked to her left gave a groan and came flying down.

With an involuntary but reflexive scream, she threw herself sideways onto the ground, gun sliding across the floor as she tried to avoid death by storage crates. She tried to crawl to it but felt something hard—the edge of a crate?—pressing into her lower back, pinning her on the ground between two other boxes.

"Mary?!" Marshall called coming into view in response to her frustrated groan. He was at her side in a second after he saw her, a hand against her cheek. "You okay?" he asked, trying to lift move the box that pinned her without having it fall in such a way to completely crush her.

"Go after him!" Mary ordered angrily.

"And leave you here without a weapon? Contrary to popular- popular belief, your- your personality is not enough to- to kill him if you need to," Marshall replied, grunting as he used both hands to lift the crate just enough for Mary to wiggle her way out from underneath.

Marshall let the crate fall back down when she finally escaped, and it hit the ground with a terrifying _crack_, enough, Mary was sure, to turn her into a flapjack, and her future plans did not involve being drowned in syrup—at least without sex as compensation.

"Which way did he go?" Mary asked reaching for her gun on the floor a few steps away.

"He-" Marshall began, but he never finished and instead slammed into Mary as another shot rang, pulling her out of the way. She landed heavily against the floor again, but in doing so knocked into her gun again so that it slid into a small crack in the crates that had pinned her earlier.

"Dammit," she swore. Marshall, who had landed next to her, scrambled up and was about to take off at full speed toward the source of the shot when he caught sight of what she was wearing and her lack of firearm.

"Where's your vest?!"

"It's on the girl," Mary shot back impatiently, reaching for the Glock strapped to her boot.

Marshall just sighed and thrust his gun at her, saying, "Then take this, too," before he bolted in another direct. Feeling particularly annoyed at her partner disappearing left and right without her, she took off after him and turned another corner just in time to see Marshall tackle down the running man.

Mary aimed both weapons at the struggling men, now, who crashed into the wall next to a window in their struggle. She tried to get a clear shot, got closer for accuracy, but their struggling and rolling around made getting a clear shot impossible.

Mary could only watch as Marshall, the taller but skinner of the two—and the gunless one, for he did not have a chance to pull the firearm from the holster strapped to his boot before entering the tussle-, managed to elbow the man in the chin but was kneed in the stomach as the same time, falling backwards from the momentum to be on the bottom of the tussle but pulling their assailant down, too, restraining the hand in which his gun resided. The other man took the moment when Marshall was trying to catch his breath from falling hard on his back to twist his arm and get the cold barrel of his gun angled enough to be pointed through the marshal's mouth. Marshall froze when he felt the metal on his chin, then was dragged up by the scruff of his bulletproof vest unceremoniously so that he was between Mary's gun and their assailant.

"Go ahead," the man huffed, digging the barrel hard into the side of Marshall's head. "Shoot!" He gave a crazed laugh.

Mary stood, frozen, gun poised as she looked at her partner's calm face, blue eyes emotionless even as he was being used as a meat shield, and contrasted it with the slightly red Hispanic face of the very young man holding him hostage. This younger man had brown eyes and light brown skin, perhaps a darker haired version of Raph, with less muscle and a more desperate look in his eyes.

"I don't want to shoot you," Mary replied, voice calm, but she could feel her pulse hammering. "Let him go, and you can still walk out of here alive."

"Oh, yeah?!" The barrel of the gun ground harder into Marshall's head so that Marshall had to fight not to flinch. "What if I don't believe you? Huh? I can kill him now and kill you, too! So why should I surrender?" His eyes widened, giving him the look of a man possessed. "I killed Shaw, and I can kill you, too!"

"Calm down," Mary ordered austerely, marshal voice in full use. "I just want to resolve everything, you know… no one has to get hurt anymore. Not after Shaw."

"He wanted to back out! Wanted to surrender, give up everything—he didn't understand, didn't understand that if we stopped providing girls, they would come _after us_ here! Not anymore!" He smiled, and his crooked teeth and eyes made this even scarier than when his expression was just livid. "They cannot kill me, cannot kill Shaw…" A otherworld cackle that made Mary adjust her grip on her gun and flinch as the pain in her knuckles from getting cut by glass hit her in full force. "I killed Shaw, I can kill all of you! I can provide girls, myself. I won't have to split the money with the bastard old man! Shoot me, bitch! Shoot, and your _hombre_ here will die!" The laugh again.

Mary glared at him, hatred bubbling through her every coherent thought at the direct threat to her partner; not the death of George Shaw and, she was almost ashamed to admit, not even the kidnapping of an innocent little girl had irked her quite as much. She kept her gaze steady on Marshall's face and away from the other man's to keep from doing something impulsive.

"Shoot, Mare," Marshall said calmly, his intense, ice blue eyes so very familiar to her.

"Yeah! Shoot us, Mare, kill us both!" the man with the gun in Marshall's head taunted, voice going slightly high-pitched.

Mary opened her mouth to speak but found her throat tight. She was a good shot, yes, but good enough to shoot a man whose face was perhaps two or three inches from her partner's _before_ he could pull the trigger to shoot aforementioned partner. She licked her lips nervously and croaked, "Marshall…"

"Shoot, Mare. I trust you," he said simply, and the words were completely intimate despite their position, despite the more-than-slightly-crazy third party. His mouth folded up in a forced smile, but his eyes were as kind as always toward her, warm and trustworthy. What could Mary do but listen? What could she do but _not_ listen?

"I can't," she whispered.

"Shoot, _Maaarre,_" cooed the man as he bared his teeth in a sneer. "Take a chance, _chica,_ shoot! Or I'll kill him!" Mary barely heard him, her attention focused on the so-familiar man in Kevlar.

"I can handle his, Mare. I'm ready, shoot. Take this bastard down," Marshall whispered back, gaze never wavering from hers. Mary shook her head just barely, and her hands started shaking.

_Oh my god, dammit, not now…_ She shook her head again, this time to keep her head clear instead of in response to Marshall's words. It was to no avail, and she felt the incoming nausea, the bright spots in her vision. Somewhere seemingly far away was the piercing voice of the Hispanic man was urging her on to shoot, shoot, _shoot your hombre, shoot!_ Closer was Marshall's reassuring whisper, _I'm okay, I trust you, I'm ready, just shoot, Mare, take this bastard down._ The two voices swam in her head, and she struggled to keep her eyes open even as her vision swam with bright color that pierced her right in the region between her eyes and her nose and made her head pound fiercely.

_Shoot, chica, shoot! Kill me, kill him! If you don't shoot me, I'll shoot him! If you shoot me, I'll shoot him first! Death, death, death!_

_Shoot, Mare. I trust you. This is what we were trained to do, this is what we do for each other._

She couldn't take it anymore. She took a breath, hands still shaking and hurting sharply from the earlier wounds, head still spinning, unable to focus on her target and unable to take all the conflicting voices buzzing in her ears. She again shifted her grip on her weapon, which was now sweaty.

A shot was fired.

_----_

:D Cliffhanger!


	5. Chapter 4

A/N: :) So, really quick question for you guys-- would you guys prefer in the future longer chapters at longer intervals or shorter chapters more frequently? It's not like I have a time frame for any of this, but sometimes, I'll have part of a chapter done that could stand on its own, and I'm not sure whether to post it immediately or add onto it. Anyway, enjoy, and please R/R!

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**Chapter 4**

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There was a moment of horror in which Mary just closed her eyes to drown out the world; she couldn't say exactly if she had fired the shot or if the Hispanic man had. Either way, she took a moment's time to stay within herself, putting off the knowledge that she killed her partner, her best friend or that she failed to save him when he had made it an unspoken promise to save her.

In that second of self-inspection, she understood the prospect of facing the rest of her life and everything it entailed—piles of paperwork, mornings after late nights of driving witnesses across the country, pie at Albuquerque's Artichoke Café, shots of bourbon that burned her throat after she let go of a witness, fiery tirades when Jinx and Brandi got themselves arrested _again_, and just… lonely late nights—the thought of facing that without Marshall was so foreign to her it might as well have been a life from the planet Krypton in the Xandor galaxy that he spoke so enthusiastically about. _I'd hate to never be able to tell him to shut the Hell up again._

It was just a moment, a clear, striking moment in which her head completely cleared, both literally and figuratively.

Then, Mary forced herself to look, to open her eyes and see the carnage as it was because that was what she did—Mary Shannon could pick up and move on, but that did not account for the immense, terrific relief she felt upon meeting Marshall's eyes again and seeing them joyously _alive_, a relief so intense that she dropped her weapon and would in later days blame it on the blood that seeped through the bandages on her hands and made the gun slippery. The man who had held Marshall at gunpoint was behind him, crumpled, and blood was beginning to pool around his head; the same blood had spattered and painted spots on the left side of Marshall's face and neck, a strange abstract work of art delicately strewn across the strong muscles of this throat and the sharp curve of his cheek.

Before either marshal could say anything, however, all Hell broke loose.

A huge crash as the half-open door was slammed open, and in poured men in uniforms, men armed to the teeth, men pushing both her and Marshall down as they swept the warehouse. Then, the mandatory visit to the medic, who took one look at Mary's hand and ordered her to the hospital, and she did not—could not find it in her—to fight back.

Marshall stayed at the crime scene to deal with explaining why, exactly, he and his partner left the scene of a double homicide and then went MIA to pursue a dangerous suspect without backup; a detective was briefing him on the sniper fire that took down the Latino killer in the warehouse as Mary was ushered past listlessly toward the back of the ambulance. She reached out and took his hand as she passed, and Marshall completely forgot the detective as she did, turning instead to look at her, but she did not meet his eyes, simply moving in the direction the medics pushed her, slowly letting go of his hand as she went. It was the closest she could get to asking Marshall to _come with me, don't leave me_, and Marshall took a step toward the ambulance to obey the silent pleas of his exotic animal when—

"Inspector!" Stan called, running toward Marshall from the street where his car was parked. "Marshall!"

"Stan," Marshall replied, surprised to see the Chief Inspector, "what are you doing here?"

Blandly and under his breath as he took Marshall by the elbow and guided him toward the edge of the chaotic crime scene, "My two best marshals completely ignore protocol and leave the scene of a double homicide, go in pursuit of a dangerous kidnapper and a murderer, and then don't radio in for almost two hours. What do you _think_ I'm doing here?"

Marshall looked back toward the ambulance and saw Mary through the glass doors; she was slumped against the wall of the car, not looking at him as it drove away, sirens and all. To Stan, "Damage control?"

"Exactly."

It was six hours later that Marshall got a chance to talk to Mary; she had been sent home after getting painkillers and stitches for her hand, but, of course, she arrived at the police station instead. As if she had a Marshall-radar, Mary made her way to the back of the station toward the conference room and sat on the wooden bench outside the door next to her partner.

"Hey."

"Hey. How's your hand?"

"Okay."

"How did you get here?"

A little of her usual sassiness and tenacity broke through as Mary replied, "I convinced an officer at the hospital that I'd arrest his ass if he disobeyed a direct order from a marshal. I got to drive a black and white. Where's Stan?"

Marshall sighed, leaned his head on the brick wall behind him and gestured toward the door of the conference room. "He's discussing our… er, our _actions_ and what sort of consequences they should have." Mary nodded and leaned against the wall too, a mere inch away from him so that he could shift a little to touch her. He did not move; he just hesitated a moment, cast a sidelong evaluative glance at her as if assessing her mood, then added, "Chief David of SF marshals want our badges pulled."

It frightened him that she just nodded. No fire, no passion, no… nothing.

"Hey," he said softly, moving his arm slightly so that it touched the length of hers from the shoulder to the wrist.

Silence as Mary didn't move for so long that Marshall was almost sure that she wouldn't respond, and he was staring off into the space in front of him resignedly when she finally said just as softly, "I wouldn't have shot."

"What?" Startled, confused.

"Earlier," Mary clarified, slumping forward so that her elbows were on her knees, "I could never have taken the shot." She stared at the ground, and her head was hung low as if defeated or admitting an unforgivable weakness. Marshall fixed his gaze at the blond hair in her face and longed to reach forward to brush it out of her face, to tuck her head under his chin and whisper platitudes of comfort. _You're not weak, you're not failing. It'll be okay._ He would do no such thing because that was not how their relationship worked.

"I—you really probably should get something stronger for the headaches, especially on the job when it's important to have a clear head, Mare," Marshall said. "Or maybe you need to take a few days off just to—"

"Idiot," Mary snapped, agitated. "It's not that. It's not _just _that, Marshall."

"And… just because you didn't take the shot doesn't mean you're incapable or weak, Mare," Marshall added because that would be what she was afraid of. "You're the strongest woman I know. You're the strongest person I know."

She sat up and leaned back against the wall again, sighing heavily as she finally, finally turned her head slightly to look at him. "You're such an idiot. Don't you get it? I couldn't… ever… go on if I killed you. If you died. Marshall, I was never going to take that shot."

"I- um, you-- oh. Okay."

"I care about you more than the goddamn job, Marshall," Mary said tightly, unwillingly. The feeling of his fingertips brushing her shoulder as she admitted a in a softer voice, "I would have done anything to make sure… he didn't kill you. _Anything._" She tore her gaze from his and looked at the ceiling stubbornly, blinking hard.

He had been here before, the urge to hold his partner—completely inappropriate in a professional sense, a gamble to see if she would accept or else eat his entrails—fighting against a warning, a fear of… something. _Rejection? Her cringing away?_

Marshall reached out slowly, giving Mary plenty of time to shy away or slap him—perhaps he would have preferred it that way, too, an assurance that his partner was alright—and drew her closer. She came willingly and laid her head on his collarbone, curling into his chest and wrapping her arms around herself. "I know," he said.

And she broke, sobs he did not understand entirely but nonetheless hated, tightening his grip as she choked out disjointed syllables.

"Mare," he told her haltingly, for her tears pained him enough to threaten to release his own, "Mare, it's okay."

"No!" she snapped firmly all of a sudden, pushing him away and looking at him fiercely, grabbing his face a little wildly in two of her hands to force his attention on her, and he was too surprised by the sudden shift that he could not think of any way to respond. She told him, "It's not going to be, Marshall. It's—Marshall, I'm sick. Really, really sick. The headaches aren't… headaches." _God, what am I doing? This isn't something he should carry. It's my luggage._

Gawking and saying, "What?" was becoming a bad habit for Marshall. He gawked. He said, "What?"

But she could not answer and instead completely withered, and he did not press her as he brought her back into his arms, feeling a little guilty that it was her pain that brought him the pleasure of having her close enough to breathe in the smell of her shampoo. At the same time, a pre-vomit sensation as he imagined the worst bacterial and viral infections possible sucking the life out of his partner, and considering his extensive knowledge of the microbial world, this only served to bring him closer to the after-pre-vomit stage, aptly named 'chucking up your breakfast.'

They stayed thusly, entwined delicately as passersby stared and wondered if they were fulfilling the age-old male-female partner cliché, but Marshall didn't mind the speculation, and Mary was in no position to notice. When her tears had faded to a slow trickle and the sobs subsided to a soft hiccupping, Marshall, finally unable to weather assuming the worst, asked in a pseudo-nonchalant voice, "So, what's wrong?"

Automatically, "Meningioma."

"Oh." Pause as he grasped blindly for something to lighten the mood even as his stomach sank. "Always said your personality was the result of a brain tumor."

"Jackass."

He grinned as a reflex, and the smile was still on his face when he asked just as lightly, "Is it malignant?"

"What do you think, Sherlock?"

"How malignant?"

"It's… mostly treatable."

"Er, how are you getting it… treated?"

Pause. "I'm not right now."

"You didn't think you needed to," he guessed, tilting his head so that his cheek lay on her head. "Mary, you need to."

"I… know."

"You can't carry a gun and protect witnesses like this."

"I know that now."

"Mary…" he breathed.

She added in a strained whisper, "I can't protect you like this." Images of a rundown gas station, a dusty desert valley, a bloodied water bottle, a hole in Marshall's chest as he explained to her why he would ever consider leaving the job she knew he loved—and the woman she suspected he loved. Memories of the promise, _I'll try not to die. For you. _Confirmation of her suspicions.

"And I can't protect _you_ if you won't let me," Marshall replied. He felt his charge tense at the words, and he said before she could interrupt him, "We're partners, Mare. It's not one-sided."

Mary pulled away from the embrace slowly, face blotchy and eyes red, but the expression on her face was one of resolution. She said, "I came here for a reason, Marshall."

He just nodded, waiting.

"I came to tell you that I'm going to go through with a transnasal brain surgery to remove the meningioma, and…" she trailed off, looking away and voice wavering.

"Mary," Marshall said, putting a finger on Mary's chin and guiding her face back to look at him, but she slapped it away and turned to glare at him intensely of her own volition.

She said, "You said it yourself, Marshall—I can't protect witnesses or myself or… or you like this, and I don't know how I'll be after the surgery. If I'll live through it."

Marshall did not respond, just held her eyes steadily, though a feeling of unease began building. This was only augmented when Mary stood, reached into her jacket, and pulled out her badge.

"Give these to Stan when you tell him I quit, will you?" Mary asked roughly, tough girl mask firmly affixed again. She thrust her badge and gun into his hands, and he looked from them to her completely bewildered.

"_Why?_"was all he managed to say, and he had to close his hands over the two items because his hands were beginning to shake as hard as hers had.

Mary smiled a little ironically and replied, "It's not you, it's me." Marshall was still stunned speechless as Mary put a hand on his face and kissed him gently on the mouth, a completely chaste and melancholy kiss—more of a seal of goodbye than a display of affection. Then, she turned on her heel and walked quickly out of the station.

Marshall stared after her, eyes wide and completely frozen, the seemingly two most important things in Mary Shannon's life cradled in his hands.

He was still in the same position when the doors of the conference room burst open, and Stan stepped through with the Santa Fe WitSec chief, the deputy director of the FBI, and the Santa Fe police chief to slap a congratulatory hand on Marshall's shoulder, booming, "We've agreed that you and Inspector Sheppard performed an extreme act of courage in bringing down this cell of a major child prostitution ring— we're commending you and putting the two of you in charge of tracking and heading off the rest of the operation." The three other heads of law enforcement made grudging sounds of assent as this was obviously not _their_ idea. Stan ignored them and said, "Good job, Marshall."

Silence.

"Marshall?" Stan asked, looking for the first time in earnest at his inspector's face. "Marshall, are you alright?"

That did it, and Stan, bewildered but loyal to a fault, awkwardly held Marshall as he cried.

----

**End of Part 1**


	6. Chapter 5

A/N: Well, this chapter's kind of... short and depressing, but see it as kind of a transition. I think, if all the muses, weather patterns, and stress levels cooperate with me, there will be two more chapters before the end-- another full out chapter, then an epilogue. So tell me what you think-- reviews make the brain work harder, make the fingers type faster--, and I'll try to update ASAP.

----

**Part 2**

**Chapter 5**

----

_She sat on the hospital bed, legs crossed awkwardly in the blue-and-white gown, a cup of jell-o in her left hand, a plastic spoon in her right. Her partner sat on the end of the bed, legs dangling off the edge; his black pants and jacket were in stark contrast to the rest of the room, all white and sanitary. Mary toyed idly with the idea that his black collared shirt made him look something between a priest and an angel of death—maybe both._

"_Marshall, please," she asked, voiced strained. Her gaze was fixed on the green gelatin in her hand._

"_I'm not sure I could do it, Mare," he replied after a beat, and she raised her head to meet his eyes; he knew he would eventually agree the moment their eyes met-- how many times had he seen that expression? The one she wore when she was sure that a suspect had a piece of information that she needed? "Your mom, your sister—even Raphael. It's not my place, Mare, I'm not even family."_

"_No," she snapped back, "you're different, but that doesn't mean you're worth any less. And you're the only one I can trust to make the decision, if you have to."_

_He didn't say anything, just looked at her with his brows furrowed, shoulders slumped. Mary vaguely wondered if he'd gotten any more sleep than she had in the past few weeks, and the dark shadows under Marshall's eyes answered her. He said, "Mare, I just—I just shot a man through the chest point-blank. I don't think I could take killing you, too, even if that's the right thing to do."_

"_Marshall," she finally said, taking a breath to calm her voice, "if this goes wrong… you know I couldn't stand spending the rest of my life hooked up to a machine and eating through a tube. If I don't come out of it, I want you to end it for me. You'd be…" she hesitated, searching for the right word, the key to appealing to his knight-in-shining-armor chivalry. "If I don't make it out okay, you'd be saving me, not killing me."_

"_Don't—" he began, voice sharper than he'd intended. Another pause, another breath, then in a calmer voice, "You'll be fine, Mare, don't say things like that. It's a perfectly routine--"_

"_I don't plan on dying, numbnuts, it's just a precaution. And you know if I asked my mom or Brandi to do it, they'd just hang on and cry until someone else made a decision for them. They'd probably just ask you, and you'd have to decide anyway, so I'm just saving them the trouble. Besides, they'd have to __know__ about this, and they're happily ignorant in New Jersey right now. And Raph—he would never let go." She dropped her spoon and jell-o on the nightstand and picked up the sheet of paper next to it, then shifted to sit next to her partner. "If you don't do this, I'll just sign a DNR, and they can't even __try__ to save me if I crash."_

_He signed._

----

Marshall sat in the waiting room of the hospital anxiously, a thick file folder cradled in his hands, but he had not flipped a page in a good twenty minutes; he had, in the past three weeks, traveled to Miami, LA, and Houston with a coterie of law enforcement, had killed three men and "freed" fourteen children—though the haunted looks in their eyes and the way they shied away from him when he had offered them his hand made him doubt just how 'free' they were.

He had watched as Mary slowly disassembled her life, breaking off her engagement with Raph on the pretense of going on an indefinitely long work-related trip. She had sold this same lie to her mom and sister, both of whom she sent off to New Jersey for the time being to try to sell off Brandi's old house; after they were gone, she had sealed her house shut and, carrying just a small overnight bag, moved into his guestroom.

"There will be no loose ends if I die," she had told him casually one evening over pasta. He focused on his food and could not look at her for fear of her seeing the storm raging in his eyes; _what about me? _

He had heard her crying one night when the rain beating against the windows was keeping him awake, and he got up and stood outside the guestroom door until the sun rose, and the sobs coming from the other side of the door subsided. Then, he got dressed and went to work, where he stared at her empty desk listlessly until Stan walked through the door; he greeted Stan with a customary salutation and buckled down pseudo-cheerfully to work so that Stan did not suggest again that perhaps it was time to let go and find another partner.

He bore the brunt of Mary's temper tantrum when he relayed the message from Stan that he'd love to have her back and would even give her a raise and convert one of the conference rooms to an office for her if she returned.

He had noticed Stan and Eleanor sometimes, too, walking past Mary's desk and double-take, as if about to say something to the absent occupant only to look shocked for a moment as the present state of things registered.

Eleanor did not try to move Mary's desk even though it was, technically, no longer Mary's desk, and Marshall was glad because he might have taken a page out of Mary's book and threaten to shoot the office administrator if she had.

He had, in the past three weeks, been carrying twice as many witnesses and had not told Mary's why, exactly, it was he who visited and asked probing questions instead of the blonde and cranky one. And this was in addition to the work he was doing with the Fugitive Task Force and the FBI, trying to pinpoint various hubs of the activities George Shaw and Jorge Dominguez—the man who had ground a gun into his head—were involved in. Even the deputy director of the FBI, Nathan Shipley, came to recognize Marshall's work as exemplary, and the progress they made was hardly believable.

He had done all this not because he was driven or liked to overwork himself. He did not do this because he had to or because the sudden departure of Mary as his partner had left him saddled with a mountain of paperwork.

He saw, did, and bore all this because, he found, it was so much easier to crash at night in exhaustion than to lie awake and wonder what went wrong.

----


	7. Chapter 6

A/N: Okay, so I lied... I wanted to just post one more chapter, then an epilogue, but my idea for the ending completely changed and is now a bit longer... probably after this chapter, _then_ another chapter, then an epilogue... so, if all goes according to plan, eight chapters and an epilogue.

Also, I've been pretty busy during the week lately, so I probably won't be able to update as much, but I'll try to finish this next weekend. Reviews keep me motivated and happy, remember! :D On with the story!

----

**Chapter 6  
**

**----**

The first sensation she had when she woke up was the motion against her hand; it was a curious type of motion, warm and soft, like a baby bird was flapping its wings against the scars on her knuckles.

It was not at all like in books and movies, the damsel-in-distress's, "Where am I?" No, Mary Shannon knew perfectly well where she was, why she was there—_I guess I survived them cutting my head open after all_—, and how she got there.

Which is why she opened her eyes, not wanting to disturb the baby bird but also wanting to see exactly what it was.

She blinked a few times to get used to the fluorescent light over her bed—the curtains were drawn, so perhaps it was night—,and when her vision focused, the first thing she saw was Marshall by her bedside. His eyes were closed, his lips on her hand, moving and mumbling gently against the new shininess on her knuckles from where she had stitches taken out—the baby bird she felt. Mary tilted her head slightly in confusion—which she made a note not to do again because it hurt her face, her head, her everything—, wondering what Marshall was doing. His hand was holding her fingers, and when she moved them slightly, he shot up like he was electrocuted.

"Mare! You're awake…" Relief. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, and she noted the bruise-like rings around his eyes and the fact that his usually impeccably gelled hair was in disarray. "Nice to see that you're back and ready to terrorize the world. We were worried that world peace would actually come to fruition… "

"Were you--" Mary had to stop and swallow because her throat was so dry. Marshall moved to the nightstand to pour a glass of water. "Were you _praying_?" Mary croaked.

Marshall put his arm around her shoulders to help her up and held the glass to her lips. As she was drinking, he said, "Something… like that. Maybe." A shrug.

"I didn't know you were Christian."

Marshall let her lie back down and put the glass on the table. "I'm not… er, haven't been for a while. But it can't hurt, right?"

Mary considered this a moment, having no argument. She asked after a pause, "What were you praying for, doofus?"

Marshall just grinned, eyes glittering as he planted another kiss on her forehead. He said, "That the removal of part of your brain would give you a total personality overhaul."

Obviously, this was not the case, and Marshall winced obligingly as she pinched his arm.

----

Three days after her surgery, Mary threatened to shoot her way out of the hospital if she was not allowed to go home.

"Ms. Shannon," the harassed-looking nurse said patiently, questioning if this was a side-effect of the operation and wondering if, perhaps, there should be a warning on the papers that said _THIS OPERATION CAN TURN YOU INTO A FLAMING BITCH, BEWARE._ "Ms. Shannon, you cannot go home unattended, and it says clearly in your paperwork that you are currently living alone."

"My mom and sister are--"

"In New Jersey, according to your paperwork," the nurse—a saintly woman with grey hair and sixteen grandchildren, which may have explained her infinite patience—told Mary, "and we will verify that they are back if you say they are, so save us the trouble and don't lie. You need someone to be with you at home for at least a few weeks to help you, monitor your health, affirm that you take your medication, and make sure your psychology is normal. If you don't have anyone, you're going to have to stay here." Mary scratched at her IV agitatedly.

It was just past six in the evening, and Marshall took this opportune moment to walk through the door after a long day's work bearing a bag he'd sneaked up with pie in it, and when Mary saw him, she automatically blurted, "I'm staying with him—he's my… fiancé."

Marshall froze mid-stride as all attention turned toward him, and he looked bewildered when the nurse asked him, "Are you?"

"Uh… what?" He looked back and forth between his glaring ex-partner and the apprehensive nurse sensing with his acute marshal-radar that he was in the under-gunfire-and-about-to-be-blown-to-smithereens position he did his best to avoid.

"Are you able to care for your fiancé during her recovery?" the nurse repeated.

"My _fiancé_?!"

"Aren't I staying with you, Marshall… honey?" Mary asked him sweetly from the bed, peeling away at the tape that held her IV in place. The nurse slapped her hand away.

"We- I-" Marshall stuttered, not knowing quite what to say. Finally, he replied weakly, thinking of all the Hell he would have to bear if he answered to the contrary, "Yes…" It was only after he said this and the nurse muttered something about getting the appropriate paperwork to release Mary that Marshall thought of all the Hell he would have to bear by answering in the affirmative.

Mary's face remained mockingly sweet as the door shut behind the nurse. She slid off the bed in the too-large hospital gown and advanced on Marshall as a predator, and he gulped nervously. _This must be how the fly feels in the spider's web…_

Stopping barely two inches from Marshall's face, Mary said in a voice one might use during intimate, close, and private interpersonal activities, "Now that we've got that settled…" She trailed off, standing on tiptoes and moving so that her mouth was so near Marshall's ear that her breath tickled it not unpleasantly. Her fingers traced the buttons on his shirt, and he heard her laugh when his breath hitched involuntarily.

She brought her lips closer to his ear and whispered, "Where's my pie, sweet pea?"

Mary had inhaled both slices of pie in the bag before Marshall could get a handle on what happened.

----

It was after a mandatory check-up (that Marshall had to a day off work for and bodily drag Mary to) that they were lounging on Marshall's leather couch two weeks later, Mary with her head on his lap and legs propped on the arm of the sofa watching TV and Marshall with his nose in another case file. He was absently rubbing his thumb along her temple when he asked lightly, "Have you called Jinx or Brandi yet to ask them to tell them that you're back?"

"No," Mary replied absently still watching Law and Order. "I'll do it after the doctors clear me so I don't have to go bail one of them out of jail while on medication."

"Oh." Silence for a bit while Marshall ran his eyes over the complicated array of dots on the map he was looking over. Then, because he had another motive and little other choice, "What about Raphael?"

Pause. Agitatedly, "What about Raph?"

"Well," Marshall replied slowly, "I just assumed you might want to reconcile with your fiancé… stay with him for a bit. You know, without Jinx and Brandi always there."

He felt Mary tense a moment before she snapped up, knocking the paper out of his hands in the sudden movement. She glared at him suspiciously. "You've never asked about my goddamn business with Raph before. What gives, you want me out of your house?"

"No," Marshall replied defensively, "of course not. You're always welcome here." He bent to pick up the contents of the files Mary had knocked from him. "I was just wondering when I'd get to be a bridesmaid. Always a dream of mine."

"You'd look good in a dress, you've got a nice figure," Mary assured him facetiously. She knocked the papers Marshall had just gathered up away from his hands again and glared at him.

Marshall made the mistake of raising his eyes to meet hers, and he caught the look—the accusing, analytical look that told him that despite not having a badge clipped to her belt, Mary's marshal-hewn lie detector was working as well as it always had. He held her gaze and asked innocently, "What?"

She said nothing and just continued to glare at him steadily, the slightest of pouts on her lips.

Silence.

Silence.

"Alright," Marshall sighed, giving in. "But you're not going to like it."

"Well?" Mary demanded impatiently, TV now completely ignored.

Marshall sighed and went on, "We had a major breakthrough in the case, a forensic test came back positive for sodium carbonate, calcium oxide, magnesium oxide, aluminum ox-" He caught the look on Mary's face and continued quickly, "The point is, we tracked one of their transport vehicles to a glass warehouse in New York called Jay Zoo Glasswares. They… want me in NYC to help take down what's suspect to be the HQ of the child trade ring."

"Have they assigned you a new partner yet?" Mary asked even more suspiciously.

"I told you that you wouldn't like it."

"_What?!_"

"Well," Marshall explained quickly, trying to head off the quickly developing anger he knew was brewing, "temporary partner. And it's just to show her the ropes for the time I'm in New York. She's not even going to be in WitSec—she's FTF."

"_She?! Show her the ropes?!_" Mary was beginning to turn a nasty shade of puce.

"She's- well, she's-"

"They're sending an unseasoned marshal to back you up while you're trying to take out a multi-million dollar child prostitution ring?!" Mary's voice was a tornado unto itself.

"Weeelll," was Marshall's brilliant response.

"What the f-"

"It'll only be for this one operation. Besides, inexperienced backup is better than no backup, right?" The expression on Mary's face told him that he probably shouldn't have asked the question, so he hurriedly continued, "Besides, you're missing the actual problem that this presents."

"Like you as a rotting corpse?" Mary hissed.

An almost bubbly pleasure that Mary was worrying over him as he said, "I signed a legal document that said I could take care of you for six weeks during your recovery. I can't leave you here alone without anyone to shove pills down your throat three times a day."

Mary just looked at him like he was crazy and said, as if it were obvious, "I'm coming with you, numbnuts."

----

Mary disliked Chloe Schumacher the moment she saw her at the airport.

She was a thin, tall brunette woman not over twenty-five with clear blue eyes, freckles, long lashes, and a kind but regal face that every woman hoped for but few achieved; Mary's annoyance was only exacerbated with Marshall's hearty laugh and glowing pleasure when he shook her hand.

"You must be Marshal Marshall Mann," she said, and her soft, ringing voice made Mary want to shoot her, "I'm sure your parents appreciated the irony."

"Less than you might think," he replied cheerfully. "Actually, it's a family tradition to go into the marshal service."

"Really?" Chloe asked excitedly, a hand on his arm now adding to her list of crimes. "Me too! Fourth generation marshal! It would be so amazing to be under the instruction of another marshal legacy. How far back?"

Marshall's grin got wider, and he laughed in earnest delight as he said, "Fifth generation!"

Before the conversation could continue any further, Mary cleared her throat loudly, and Marshall finally looked at her. "Oh! Chloe, this is Mary, my… uh, my…" Marshall trailed off, looking confusedly at Mary, not sure exactly what their story was this time. Mary just glared at him.

"Your wife?" Chloe supplied, taking her hand off Marshall's arm.

"Wife? Huh, no," Marshall said too quickly. "She's my- my- friend," he finished weakly, no longer able to use 'partner' to describe their relationship.

"I'm Mary," she said, not extending her hand even when Chloe made to shake. "So where are we staying? Marshall and I are tired."

Mary very purposefully hooked her arm through Marshall's as they walked toward the exit.

----

By the time they reached their room in the rundown motel that was all the marshal service would pay for, Mary was seething.

She had spent the better part of the hour-long car ride—to her surprise, Chloe also drove a Probe, albeit hers didn't stall, didn't lurch, didn't sputter _once_—staring out the window and trying to ignore the animated conversation Marshall was having with the junior marshal he would take along for the duration of their stay. _God, I hate New York…_

"Did you two need two separate rooms?" Chloe asked concernedly as they pulled up to the rundown motel, looking at Mary through the rearview mirror.

"Er, the marshal service will only cover one since she's not an on-duty marshal," Marshall replied from the passenger seat.

"I could make a few calls," Chloe offered generously. "My father is the-"

"We're fine," Mary snapped suddenly, and it was the first time during the entire ride that she had said anything. Marshall threw her a startled look over his shoulder but said nothing.

It was in this vein that Mary later dropped her overnight bag next to the queen sized bed and crashed upon it, pretending to be asleep by the time Marshall had finished thanking Chloe and carried his own bag in.

"Mare?" she heard him ask hesitantly after he shut the door. She felt the bed dip slightly as he sat down, but she ignored him. "Mare, it's time for you to take your antibiotics."

Nothing.

Marshall sighed, and something resembling a third cousin to guilt reared its head in Mary's gut as she thought of all the things she put him through the past few weeks._ If I were a better person…_, she thought. "Mare, I have to go to a briefing now, so I can't fish for what's wrong."

Still, nothing.

"Mare…" A heavy sigh, and she could almost feel his eyes regard her tiredly. "Alright, okay. Your pills are on the nightstand. Take them later, okay?"

She felt him squeeze her shoulder lightly, say quietly into her ear, "I'll be back around ten," then heard the door open and close.

The moment Marshall was gone, Mary sat up, grabbed the little orange bottle on the nightstand, and threw it with all her strength at the door. It only made a pathetic little clatter before it fell to the floor.

"Goddamn bastard, thinks he's my goddamn mother," she muttered maliciously, grabbing the remote and turning on the television. Nearly yanking the alarm clock out of the wall socket trying to check the time—5:46— she added, "Wonder how far he's going to get with that slut."

Nothing on TV held Mary's attention for long, however, and the inaction in which she found herself mired just served to make her increasingly agitated. The only thing that calmed her, it seemed, was going over the case files she secretly photocopied from Marshall's drawer for the fiftieth time, but even that failed to distract her after she decided that she knew the tactical aspects of the plan backwards and forwards._ I should be the one storming the warehouse tomorrow with him, dammit._

When Marshall finally let himself in at around two in the morning, arms full of papers and files, he found her pacing the room like a caged cat.

"I thought you'd have gone to sleep," he said, surprised. He glanced around the room, which looked like a tornado hit it and decided not to ask.

Mary stopped halfway across the room from her pacing and shot back, "I thought you were going to be back at ten." An accusation. He would have been flattered that she had waiting up if not for the buzzing going on in his head from the coffee that was keeping him upright and functional.

Instead of challenging the irritated predator, Marshall just shrugged. "We stayed late going over tomorrow's tactical plans. Then I took a while to explain to Chloe how we tracked down this central hub of the operation. We went through some police reports, analyzed the headquarters' position…"

"Hm, liking your new partner?" Mary asked bitterly, moving to sit on the bed.

"She's not my new partner," Marshall replied tiredly, his mind a haze of exhaustion. "Mare, I'm just doing my job." He let the stack in his arms fall loudly onto the table and moved to sit heavily next to her, curling his arm around her waist when she tried to move away. "You're my partner."

She swung back on him ready to challenge, to yell, to take out all her frustration about not being able to do anything but instead took in his haggard-looking face, his slumped posture, and the way he held his eyes only half open, and the belligerence died in her throat.

"You're exhausted," she noted quite unnecessarily. His response was a rueful smile that came from a lifetime away.

Her anger dissipating as irrationally as it came, she gently pulled him down backwards, helping him out of his jacket and tie as she did—he followed without question.

He obligingly curled around her as she pulled up the comforter, and they fell asleep tucked like newborn puppies.

----

Mary woke before Marshall did because of a dull knocking at the door. She untangled herself from the arms that had formed a loop around her waist, tore a hand quickly through her hair, and walked groggily to the door. The person on the other side knocked again as Mary looked through the peephole.

The she-devil again.

Briskly but quietly, Mary opened the door and stepped out into the pre-dawn grey—_god, she did not just knock before sunrise-_-, shutting it again before the young marshal could say anything.

"What do you want?" Mary asked brusquely, eye to eye with Chloe.

The younger woman did not appear intimidated in the least, brown locks swept back into a high ponytail, badge and gun glittering proudly on her belt; it was very rare that Mary felt threatened by another woman, but this one might as well have been carrying an M-16 to her Glock 23. This Mary did not take kindly to.

"Good morning," Chloe clipped civilly, inclining her head slightly in forced recognition. "I came to get Marshall so we could go over some last-minute details of the glass warehouse layout before tonight; I'm sorry if I woke you." Her eyes swept up Mary's form, from her rolled up, borrowed Pooh Bear pajama pants to the also borrowed, faded pink UNM t-shirt she wore to sleep. Mary sported Marshall's clothing defiantly.

"Marshall's asleep," she replied shortly, forcing a smile. "I'll wake him up, you wait here." Without waiting for an answer, she let herself back into the room and shut the door in the other woman's face.

Mary had no intention of waking Marshall, telling herself that it was because he was tired and should sleep, not to get back at the woman who had kept him out so late. _Only I get to keep him out past bedtime._

However, just as Mary was about to climb back into the bed, Marshall said amusedly without moving or opening his eyes, "I'm sure that went well."

"Shut up," Mary said through a yawn, flopping down beside him again, face in her pillow.

He just grunted in assent and fell asleep again, taking her lead and ignoring a renewed set of knocks at the door.

----

"I don't like this," Mary told him darkly for the fifth time that evening, unease evident in her voice. She was leaning against the door watching Marshall pull on his heavy Kevlar vest.

"Should I be flattered that you're worried?" he asked, snapping a buckle.

"I don't care who her dad is or whether her grandfather was a marshal or a freaking fry cook," Mary continued heatedly, shifting her weight between her feet and completely ignoring him, "she's still got zero experience in the field, and it'll be dark. Why couldn't they find anyone else to back you up in the main entrance?"

"You know," he replied, pulling on the U.S. Marshal windbreaker, "it's almost like my partner quit."

Mary opened her mouth to say something unsavory but came up short. Marshall looked up from trying to zip the jacket after missing the expected retort, but Mary would not meet his eyes.

"Mare, I'll be fine," he said not quite sure if he meant it; he had not even done witness recovery without Mary in what seemed like forever let alone SWAT or fugitive task force work, but it was not he who needed reassurance now. Checking the gun at his side one more time, he moved over to the door where she was stewing silently and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Mare, I'll be-"

She hugged him fiercely without warning and hissed, "I have a bad feeling about this… If you die, I'm going to castrate you and bury the important parts in my backyard."

Marshall chuckled willingly, his arms around her awkward because of the heavy Kevlar in the embrace.

A knock on the door caused them to pull apart reluctantly, and he gave her a reassuring smile before opening it.

"They got us an armed SUV, so we don't have to take the probe," Chloe said cheerfully when Marshall opened the door, shoving the keys to her Probe into her pocket as she pulled out another, fancier key. "Ready to go?"

"_Oui, oui_," Marshall replied graciously with a little bow, and only the fact that this woman would have to look after her ex-partner's back kept Mary from interjecting rudely.

He turned back toward Mary and told her, "Get some sleep, and I'll probably be back before you wake up." Giving her shoulder one last squeeze, he turned to go.

"Wait!" Mary called impulsively. Marshall and Chloe, halfway to the black SUV, turned curiously.

Slowly, Mary walked toward the two and surprised everyone when she pulled Chloe into a hug. She said, "Take care." The 'of Marshall' was implied.

The younger woman froze awkwardly, not knowing what to do. She stood still for a good thirty seconds, but when it was clear that Mary was not about to let go without a reply, she rigidly returned the hug. "I will," Chloe said.

With that, Mary pulled away, shoving her hands in her pockets and clearing her throat as if embarrassed at the sudden display. She watched silently as Chloe got into the driver's seat and Marshall the passenger's side.

It was only after that the car disappeared around the corner that Mary withdrew her right hand from her pocket and, along with it, the keys to Chloe's probe.

----

Inaction had never been Mary's forte, and it was because of this that, forty minutes later, Mary got out of the probe two blocks away from Jay Zoo Glasswares on the fringes of New York City; the streets were dark, streetlights broken, and the entire line of warehouses and long-forgotten small businesses seemed completely abandoned. A bright moonlight made the surface of the asphalt glow, but it was also this illumination, Mary knew, that would make sneaking up on a suspected hub that much harder.

Tucked in her belt was the small Glock 27 that Marshall had left with her because he knew it made her feel safer, though it was technically not legal for her to use it. Her black pants and black jacket could easily blend into a crowd of agents and officers, and she had, over the years, learned to carry herself in the I-am-the-law way.

She took off at a jog toward where she knew the warehouse would be, taking care to keep close to the shadows of the buildings, and although she had undergone major brain surgery three weeks before, she made the half-mile of abandoned roads in less than ten minutes.

Mary slipped through back alleys that she had analyzed over Marshall's shoulder in the past week and ended up in the narrow space between two decaying buildings across the street from the target. There, as she had anticipated, the shadows were dark and dense enough to hide her from sight, though all the world seemed to be in a silent sleep of death; nothing moved, nothing stirred. She crouched there and waited, watching the glass warehouse and the clock on her cell phone intently.

At precisely 10:45pm, right on schedule, the strategy went into effect, and everything clicked into motion.

----

A/N: Another author's note, I guess: I've been having a bit of trouble with this fic lately, not quite sure where to take it, exactly... I mean, I know how it will end, but I'm not sure how to get there from here, and my roommate's not helping much because her best advice is, "Kill them both! Have them pull a Romeo & Juliet!"

So, anyway, I'm asking for any ideas? Likes? Dislikes? A little criticism would be greatly appreciated because I always work on these things at like... three in the morning, and I'm never sure if they make any semblance of sense until I read it three weeks later by which time it's too late. Oh, the woes of a badly time-managed author!

Okay, right... so R/R, and tell me what you think!


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

----

_At precisely 10:45pm, right on schedule, the strategy went into effect, and everything clicked into motion._

----

Mary stayed low against the dilapidated brick wall of the building and watched silently the dark shapes of men in Kevlar begin to swarm around the glass warehouse across the street; to the untrained eye, the warehouse would just look like another one of the semi-lit buildings that had long been abandoned for practical use but were the secret haunts of teenagers and the homeless.

But the wide front doors of the building was a little too sturdy, a little too new, and a little too firmly shut; the windows were too carefully boarded up, not a trace of dust along the panels. Even the half-tipped dumpster sitting on the side of the building looked a little too deliberate.

Quietly, patrol cars were beginning to move in from up the street, and Mary could guess at which figure at the front of the building belonged to Marshall—the lanky, tall one, and who could mistaken _that_ hair?

Mary looked to her watch—10:47:46. She waited, stomach in knots and barely breathing for the suffocating unease that resided in her veins. _Why am I here? I don't need to be here, they can handle it… so why do I feel like I __need__to be here…?_

She counted with the second hand of here watch, knowing precisely the next move—_five, four, three, two-_

10:48:00.

"FBI, open up!" she heard clearly from across the street—Marshall's voice, and she vaguely wondered what the bosses had to say to make him identify himself and his cohort as FBI instead of U.S. Marshals. _Probably some random jurisdictional crap that someone made up,_ she thought a little wildly.

A few seconds before Marshall's voice rang through the darkness again, "FBI, we have a warrant to search the premises—open up or we're coming in!"

For a few more seconds, nothing happened; then, Marshall must have given a signal because three loud crashes sounded through the night air—one from each of the exits from the warehouse, Mary knew—and the squad cars, armored SUVs, and preemptory ambulances began screeching as they all drove in tight around the building.

Light spilled from the front door that had been knocked open, and she saw Marshall's form haloed for a second in the doorway before he disappeared through it, then Chloe's unmistakable stature followed.

Mary waited impatiently as officers and backup spilled from the vehicles and crouched a distance away from the entrance, waiting for the call for help from the inside.

Even over the loud screeches of sirens ringing through the air, she could hear the sounds of shouts begin to build from inside the warehouse, panicked orders and demands. The tension in the air became almost too much to bear because no one could quite clearly make out the exact words, but this became a small concern when, all of a sudden, a loud _whoosh_ sound permeated the night air.

Seconds later, smoke began spilling from the doors of the warehouse, unable to escape from the boarded windows. Mary jumped up out of her crouch and threw herself amongst the crowd of law enforcement just as the first SWAT members began evacuating the warehouse, some carrying little dark bundles that were crying in fear—the leftover, broken pieces of childhood mockingly contained in the form of thirteen-year-olds, ten-year-olds, eight-year-olds.

Everything had sprung into chaos, officers running to help SWAT with their charges, paramedics in the fray, flames beginning to be visible, and always, always the intense heat that overtook the cool New York air.

No one noticed Mary throwing herself into the melee, struggling against the movement of bodies that generally were moving _away_ from the fire. She pushed and shoved through the swarm of uniformed men and women to get closer to the smoke-poisoned door, at the same time frantically looking around for a sign of a tall, brown-haired head.

She finally thrust herself through a line of paramedics that where taking little bodies from the arms of men who were coughing raggedly from the heavy, dark smoke, faces stained and eyes watering. The flames were starting to lick at the boards at the window, effectively shutting off any hope of escape there; Mary cast another frantic look around through the crowd, searching, searching…

"Mary!" came a familiar voice, and she whipped around quickly at it.

"Stan, what're you doing here?" Mary asked, surprise taking over the worry for a second. Her ex-boss trotted toward her from where he had been with a group of three other worried, administrator-looking men, all of whom were watching the burning building in horror for fear for the lives of the agents their respective agencies.

"Better question for you," Stan replied quickly before continuing, "You can't be here—you don't have any jurisdiction as a civilian."

Instead of arguing, Mary demanded, "Have you seen Marshall? Where's Marshall?"

A look of worry that no doubt reflected the one on her face; he shook his head.

Without asking further—_because partners know, they always know_—, Mary turned and took off toward the flaming building, ignoring Stan behind her shouting, "Mary! MARY! Inspector Shannon, do not go in there, that's an order!"

Had it been a less serious situation, Mary may have turned and stuck her tongue out at Stan in the vision of maturity. As it was, she just made an ironic mental note that he called her 'Inspector,' intrigued in the back of her mind how much it pleased her to be addressed like that again.

Unthinkingly, Mary threw herself into the thick smoke of the door, trying her best to crouch and cover her mouth and nose with her hand.

"Marshall!" she called, squinting through the haze; the inside of the warehouse was two stories; the bottom had little room-like compartments sectioned off by thin, once-white curtains which were now flaming; the six-by-six spaces were undoubtedly the sorry excuse for a room that each child lived in. Along the walls stood large white vans like the one Shaw had in his garage, undoubtedly for some sort of transport. The second story was merely a walkway that extended around the perimeter of the room, granting anyone up there a clear view of all that was going on in any of the spaces on the first floor.

It was because she was looking upwards that she spotted the flurry of movement on the second story walkway, three figures standing alarmingly close to a boarded up window that was aflame.

Without another thought, Mary crouched lower and took off at a sprint toward the far wall where the figures stood, dodging particularly enthusiastic flames as best she could. Still, she was caught a few times when a flame licked her wrist greedily.

She was out of breath and sweating profusely when she reached the space beneath the walkway where Chloe, Marshall, and another man—three times Marshall's size around _at least_—stood. Only the other man had his gun drawn; Marshall held a small blond girl in his arms and was weaponless, and Chloe had her hands held up, also weaponless and cornered.

"Marshall!" Mary called in relief and without thinking, looking upwards.

The next events happened quickly; one moment, Mary was bent over trying to watch her breath, the next, the belligerent-looking man with the gun on the walkway above saw her and swiveled his arm to rest the gun on her.

He was above, she was below; he was armed, and, though she had Marshall's spare weapon in her hands, she had not found a Kevlar vest lying around the hotel room, so she was completely vulnerable. There were not the odds she liked to play, and the words _oh, crap_ came to mind as she saw even from thirty feet away the barrel of a gun trained on her.

With no time to dodge, Mary just watched as the man made ready to pull the trigger.

The shot never hit her, however, because in the moment before the bullet was out of the barrel, Chloe launched herself bodily at the man, and they both tumbled from the momentum backwards over the railing, landing in a heap with a crash.

Stunned but thinking fast, Mary cast a glance toward Marshall to see him moving fast toward the nearest stairway down back onto the first floor. Satisfied, Mary ran toward where Chloe and the man lie unconsciously on a collapsed curtain; it had luckily not been burning, and Mary wasted no time in rolling the obese man—she recognized his face up close as one from a mug shot she had seen in the case file—off of the junior marshal.

"Chloe," Mary urged, patting her face quickly. No response. "Chloe, come on, dammit, this place could collapse…" She kept shaking the younger marshal, but she did not respond.

Giving up, Mary bodily dragged Chloe up, pulling the woman's arm around her shoulders to support her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Marshall hurtling down the stairs and was satisfied that he would be fine following her out.

Turning, Mary coughed and sputtered as she half-dragged, half-supported Chloe through the maze of curtains toward the exit, unable to duck under the smoke because of the body that she was carrying with her. At one point, Chloe's long hair flew sideways enough to catch on fire; Mary quickly dropped her and smothered out the flame before continuing.

The smoke at the exit was thickest, and Mary threw herself and Chloe through it blindly, the both of them landing in a tangle in the dirt. But they were blissfully, finally out, and Mary took big gulps of air greedily.

She felt a pair of arms help her to her feet and saw Stan, who was trying to pull her away from the intensely heated building; already, Chloe was being lifted by two paramedics who ran with her toward the ambulance.

Mary was letting herself be helped by Stan away from the fire when she chanced to look back over her shoulder—and did _not_ see Marshall.

Still sputtering and leaning heavily on her ex-boss, she coughed, "Marshall's—why isn't he coming out- where- Stan, _what the Hell_-"

"Mary, he'll get himself out," Stan told her worriedly, motioning for another set of paramedics to look at her. "He's tough, but you're going to have to-"

"He was right behind me!" Mary protested in a gasp of air. She went into another fit of coughs.

Stan patted her back as she coughed and said, "Take care of yourself right now, Mary. Marshall can-"

Without waiting for him to answer, however, Mary pulled away from him and, for the second time in the last hour ignoring Stan, took off again to brave the flames.

This time, it was harder because she was already out of breath and dizzy from smoke inhalation, but her vision adjusted quickly to peering through billowing clouds of black. She crouch-ran back the way she came, underneath curtains that were all but burned to a crisp; the flame had now taken to gnawing at the wooden beams in the ceiling and the support beams at regular intervals around the room. Mary prayed that they held up.

She ducked and rolled under a curtain and nearly crashed into Marshall on the other side.

"What are you _doing?!_" Mary demanded upon seeing him struggle against the weight of both an unconscious child and man who had minutes before been aiming a gun at them. She gawked at him incredulously for a moment.

He answered her with a debilitating cough, then, "Couldn't leave him here to die." As if it were obvious.

_Leave it to Marshall to risk frying his ass for a man who collected children like toys and tried to kill us all._ Leaving the disbelief for another time, Mary took the child from Marshall's arms quickly—an angelic-faced little girl with curls that were, at the moment, covered in soot. She looked otherwise to be sleeping peacefully.

"Come on," Mary barked to her partner, and they began to make their slow progress back toward the outside and fresh air.

It was a long, torturous route obscured by smoke and made hard to navigate by the maze of curtains that had once divided one large room meant for storing an shipping glass into a hundred little compartments for storing children until they were needed.

It could have been years or it could have been seconds before they turned the corner around one such compartment and was in view of the door. Looking back to make sure that Marshall was a few steps behind her, she held the small-statured little girl- _God, she can't be more than eight_- closer to her and ducked her head down for the final sprint.

There was a horribly painful _bending_ sound a moment before a large section of the ceiling beams came crashing down in front of them—they threw themselves sideways on the group to avoid the flying embers—, impacting the ground right in front of the door and obstructing it with huge, flaming wooden beams. _Just my luck_, Mary thought savagely.

"You alright?" Marshall asked her breathlessly, working to get back up and drag his burden with him; the unconscious man lolled uselessly against his shoulder.

"Aren't there two other exits?!" Mary shot back over the roar of the flames that were beginning to close up on them. Marshall seemed to realize something and looked at her in horror.

"Those were blocked, too; you shouldn't have come," he told her before coughing again so hard that he had to put down the man he was trying to save so he could catch his breath. Mary reached out and rubbed his back gently.

"Is there no other way out?" she asked him once he could straighten up again. He shook his head.

"Our only choice is to go through," Marshall said heavily, nodding toward the now-barred doorway. He heaved the unconscious man back up and took a step toward the flaming beam when Mary reached out and tugged him back.

"I've got an idea," she said, and without any other explanation, then took off running back away from their blocked exit back toward where they came. Marshall followed her without question.

It took a shorter time to reach the back wall from which Chloe and the man had tumbled earlier than it had to get to the door, and to Mary's utter relief, nothing had fallen on the row of white vans that sat in a straight line facing the wall.

She hurriedly rushed to the first van in the row and threw open the door, ignoring the pain in her finger pads when they came in contact with the searing hot door handle; it would have been like worrying about a leaking faucet when there was a hurricane coming.

She could have cried in relief in seeing the keys stuck obligingly in the ignition.

Instead, she gently lay the unconscious girl into the passenger's seat and buckled her in, then turned to help Marshall get into the back with the large man; they heaved him heavily, and he landed with a _thump_ in the trunk area.

Before Marshall could get in behind him, however, there was a loud popping explosion as the heat of the fire caused something behind them to explode; Mary found herself thrust heavily to the ground as Marshall threw himself against her reflexively, completely knocking the wind out of her.

There was the bangs and clanks as whatever had exploded landed in pieces around the room, and then she found herself pressed tightly against the hot metal of the van next to theirs, face inches from Marshall's; her eyes widened slightly as she registered just how close their faces were, and it would have been a scene out of a B-rated, sappy romance film if they had not been in a building about to collapse with two people they had to protect.

And if Marshall didn't suddenly wince in pain, stumble backwards, and fall in a heap when his leg buckled.

"Marshall!"

She kneeled quickly next to him lying on his side with his face scrunched in pain, looking him over to see what was wrong; one of his hands was now soaked in blood, pressed to the back of his thigh where a shard of glass three inches long—thrown from the explosion—was protruding from his flesh. It also stuck out a little from the front of his thigh, where it had gone straight through. "Oh, God, Marshall…"

He took a breath and ended up coughing, but he managed to choke out, "Well, that sucks, doesn't it?"

"I don't know, you tell me," Mary retorted a little hysterically; she knew better than to try to get the glass out and increasing the risk of him bleeding out, so she quickly took off her jacket and tied a sleeve around his thigh tightly above his wound, but still there was so much, so much blood.

"Come on," she grunted, hauling Marshall up and practically throwing him into the back of the truck; he looked too dazed from blood loss for a retort and just looked at her with glazed-over eyes as she shut the doors to the trunk, throwing him into darkness.

_I'm so sorry, Marshall… I should've been here with you from the beginning…_

Mary rubbed the back of her hand against her forehead to wipe off the sweat as she got into the driver's seat and turned the ignition; it came it life with a dull roar, and all Mary could do was give an involuntary sigh of relief.

She threw the van in reverse and backed it up about thirty feet; then, setting it to drive, she stomped on the accelerator, and the van crashed through the warehouse wall.

They came out the other side in a shower of bricks and burning mortar, right into the side of a patrol car; behind them, half the building collapsed in a concoction of smoke and flames.

What happened next, Mary only remembered in bits and pieces; officers and paramedics wrenching open the doors, pulling her out. She remembered watching as two EMTs cupped their hands and took turns giving the unconscious girl CPR, remembered when they finally sat back on her heels and exchanged a few words before transferring her to a gurney and pulling a sheet over her face.

She remembered the man they had rescued—the man who had kidnapped and traded children like trading cards—coughing to life five seconds after a paramedic had him out of the van.

She remembered a group of EMTs carrying Marshall's unconscious body from the back of the van, face a deathly pale. The moment they put him on the white sheets of the gurney, they were stained a deep, dark red. Stan said something to one of the medics who were loading Marshall into the ambulance, then helped Mary in after him; she held his hand and couldn't for the life of her remember what she said to him during the ride to the hospital but did remember the slightly alarmed but pitying looks the paramedics gave her while bandaging and intubating Marshall. She remembered being offered a tissue but slapping them away.

Mary was ushered out of the ambulance alongside Marshall and followed alongside him as he was transferred into the hands of a group of stern-looking nurses in scrubs. She had to run to keep up as they rushed him down a long, white hallway and through a set of doors- doors that she was prevented from going through by an unsympathetic-looking nurse who threw some quick words at her and disappeared after her partner.

And that was all that Mary remembered before she completely shut down, and everything went dark around her.

----

Mary woke to Stan's irritated voice on the phone.

"…bravery, and there's no way that she should be punished for what no one in your department had the balls to do!" Mary watched Stan's back as he angrily snapped shut his phone.

He muttered something along the lines of, "Damn ignoramus," before he turned and noticed his inspector blinking blearily up at him.

"Mary!" he greeted, surprised. "You're awake already."

Mary nodded and opened her mouth to speak but found quite quickly that there was a large oxygen mask strapped to her face; she lifted her arm—bandaged and tingling oddly, _probably burned_, she thought—to remove the hindrance, but Stan was beside her in a second, pushing her hands away.

"Your lungs are damaged from all the smoke," he told her kindly, "you need that thing for a while." Seeing her about to protest, he interrupted, "Marshall's fine."

This seemed to placate her a great deal, and Stan continued, "He got a lot of stitches, a blood transfusion, but he got out of surgery this morning and is sleeping it off right next door."

Mary nodded and gave him an appreciative smile.

"We've notified your mom and Brandi; they're on their way here from New Jersey."

A less appreciative smile.

"And," Stan added, completely oblivious, "I have some news for you." He cleared his throat grimly. "You know you weren't supposed to be there last night."

Mary's licked her dry lips but said nothing, turning her head to look out the window where the New York sun was beginning to set along the horizon; _have I been asleep for that long?_

"Mary," Stan chided gently, and Mary forced herself to look back at him to bear whatever she was being charged with. He said, "You interfered with an investigation, Mary. You aren't officially a marshal, and that means you… posed a great liability, and the higher ups aren't very happy about that."

Mary just continued to look at him blankly.

"But you saved two marshals," Stan said, a grin breaking out across his face. "One of them was the regional director's daughter. You helped bring out a man to be charged with negligent murder and kidnapping and Hell knows what else. You brought a little girl out so her family could have some closure…"

"Stan," Mary choked out dryly, though the oxygen mask muffled her voice and made her words gargled.

Stan's grin just got wider, and he held up his hands to indicate that he would get to the point. "All charges against you will be waived if you take this back," he said, and his smile was too big for his face when he reached into his jacket and pulled out a round marshal badge, which he laid in Mary's unburned hand.

All Mary could do was run a thumb over the familiar metal—it was _her_ badge, complete with the dent she had put in it once when she jammed it into a man's teeth for hitting on her—and nod.

"Well, then, I'm going to have to start the paperwork," Stan chucked merrily. He patted Mary's shoulder affectionately and said, "Get some rest, Inspector," before he let himself out with a bounce in his step.

Mary waited a mere ten seconds before she pulled the oxygen mask off her face and sat up; she was still for a while, waiting for the blood rushing to her head to settle. Then, fairly certain that she could breathe well enough, she swung her feet off the bed and headed for the door with the IV in tow.

As quietly as she could, Mary pushed open her door and stepped into the hallway, which was blissfully deserted. Grateful for the chance, she quickly padded to the door of the next room and let herself in.

Marshall, as Stan had let slip, was there on the bed.

Mary exhaled a breath she didn't know she was holding when she saw that Marshall was actually, truly here and alive.

As if responding to a call, Marshall shifted slightly and opened his eyes halfway. He smiled blearily when he saw her.

_Probably high on painkillers,_ Mary thought, amused at the prospect.

Mary walked slowly to his bedside and said hoarsely, "Go to sleep, doofus." Then, she climbed in beside him, taking care to avoid his right leg.

Marshall gave a low grunt of assent, moving so she could lie down without being on his IV. Mary entwined her fingers with his firmly and rested her head against his chest.

And that was how the nurse found them in the morning.

----

:) Stay tuned for the epilogue!


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**----**

It was a month later, and the New York City air held the slightest touches of the winter to come.

Mary and Marshall shuffled past silently with the rest of the procession through the dusk, laying white roses that looked red in the light of the setting sun on the coffin of Ally Bernard, eight years old and dead from smoke inhalation on a fiery night at a warehouse.

It was a testament to the new, lopsided order of things that Mary had to be the one to give Mr. and Mrs. Bernard condolences about the daughter they had not seen for two years. They thanked herself and Marshall tearfully for their roles in bringing their daughter home and for flying from Albuquerque to attend the funeral.

Since that night Marshall had been semi-high on painkillers in the hospital so long ago, things had been eerily quiet between the two partners—albeit Mary had been running around for three weeks taking exams, psych evals, and physicals to get reinstated, helping her mother and sister settle back into her house, and falling back into her hurricane way of doing things.

But despite everything she was busy with, she had _tried._

They had talked little after the raid in New York because there were statements to give and reports to write, but that did not account for the uneasy tension Marshall retained toward her after a lengthy plane ride back to the southwest; she had made attempts at busting his ass, at teasing, at asking probing questions, at even asking for a bit of useless information on the logistics of an airplane's aerodynamic build. He replied to everything with a wary and infuriatingly _polite_ tone. Mary did not know what to make of it.

She drove Marshall to get his stitches out after they had gotten back to Albuquerque, showing up randomly at his house the day of and dragging him into her car, and banter and snarky remarks should have abounded. They did not; no matter what she did, Marshall retained the wary, stony, _goddammit I'm going to kill someone_ polite tone with her.

He did not make any move to apologize on her behalf or slip a tip to the girl behind the corner when they stopped for coffee on the way back and Mary did not include a gratuity; he just paused for the briefest of moments and followed her back to the car.

Mary tried to call Marshall every night for a week as she always did before she went to bed, even if they had been together only minutes before; it was a ritual they kept, and when, time after time, she was deferred to voice mail, she didn't know what to think.

She had been planning to knock on his door, kick it down if she had to, but things got in the way, and eventually, she gave up calling.

She did not know that Marshall sat up until four the first night she didn't call, staring at his cell phone and waiting for 'missed call' to register on it. It never came, and he never had a chance to sit battling with himself until it was too late, and the call was forwarded to voice mail.

They had seen little of each other, and since Mary's official first day back was not scheduled until the following week and Marshall took three weeks medical leave for his leg, 'little' meant 'none.'

That is, until the black and gold card came in the mail asking the two to attend a funeral service. Not even Marshall in his new-found apathy could say no to the smiling picture that came with the invitation, a cruel, teasing reminder of a girl that could have been.

They had not planned to go together, but Eleanor had booked their tickets before either had time to react, and so together they had flown. In silence.

And in silence they drove away as Ally Bernard's casket was lowered into the ground, sealing the story of the little girl who knew too much in her too-short time.

"Marshall?" Mary asked because she needed to say his name.

"Yes, Mary?" he answered obligingly.

_He called me by my name… He never calls me by my name._

"What _happened_ to us?"

"Excuse me?" Marshall asked, not taking his eyes off the road—probably a good thing considering the _oh my God, and I thought I was a terror in the Probe_ drivers in NYC, but it still irked Mary.

_***(Alt. ending at the end.)***_

"You know what I mean."

He said nothing, but she kept her eyes on him vigilantly, watching his every move and looking for one that gave him away or gave her an explanation. There wasn't one, and the growing silence was beginning to annoy her.

"Marshall!" she snapped. He said nothing, did nothing. "MARSHALL!" Anger hiding fear.

"Wait," he replied finally, calmly.

"What the Hell is th-"

"We'll do this."

"_What in Hell are you-_"

"Mary." She glared at him, fuming, but he remained concentrated on driving, sitting stick-straight staring straight ahead. "We'll have this conversation, then. We'll duke this out, but not now."

"_When, Marshall?! _You can't just ignore me for three weeks and expect me to-"

"If you want to talk about this," he said rigidly, running over her tirade, "we'll talk about this. But I'm not doing this here. We're going to sit down and _talk_ about this."

"_Fine._"

She watched him as he drove, analyzed his profile every time they drove past a night and it cast a fleeting yellow that illuminated his features.

She was still gazing fixedly at him when they pulled into a parking space at the motel. He did not pause after removing the keys from the ignition, just unbuckled his seat belt and let himself out of the car.

_Not getting away this time, Marshall_. Mary was out of the car and had Marshall by the collar before he had time to make any excuses; he stumbled along beside her as she dragged him to her door roughly, fumbled with the car key, and pushed him into the room. She let the door slam closed behind her and leaned against it challengingly, reminding him that he was not going to get away. He regarded her with a raised eyebrow but otherwise said nothing, settling for straightening out the collar of his black shirt.

"Talk," she commanded sternly when it was clear he was not going to start of his own volition.

"About?"

"Goddammit, Marshall!" Mary was fighting the urge to punch him, slap him, throttle him. "You know perfectly well about what. You act like—like I have some incurable, contagious disease for three weeks without so much as an explanation, and now you're- you're- you're-" She stuttered to a fuming halt, fury rendering her brain unable to continue coherently.

"You do have some incurable disease," Marshall replied smoothly. "It's called stupidity."

Mary opened and closed her mouth a few times, trying to find the right retort but unable to, caught between uncontainable rage and surprise.

"But," he continued, sitting down on the bed tiredly, running a hand through his hair, "now you know how it would feel to be without me."

"_What?_"

"You heard me." Looking up at her with clear, challenging blue eyes. "If you want to rush into battles alone, at least know what you're getting yourself into. If you're going to start being a one-man team… well, then."

"Is _that_ what this is about? I didn't ask permission before I followed you to that goddamn warehouse?!" She left her position against the door and prowled closer to him disbelievingly, advancing on him step by step by a predator. "You've been bitching for this long because I didn't have you sign a permission slip to save your ass?" Her knees were now touching his where he sat on the bed, and had he chosen to remain there, he would have had to look up at her.

He stood, rising to the challenged and forcing her to look up at _him_; it was a dance of dominance, and although Marshall was not usually one to lead, this was not their normal tango by any means. "You could have gotten yourself killed in that warehouse."

"It's part of the job."

"You weren't _on_ the job, and you didn't have me to back you up," he shot back, eye to eye with her and faces so close in their contention that the breath he exhaled became the next one she inhaled.

"I don't need you to-"

"You need to decide," he raised his voice vehemently, "whether we're going to be partners or not."

That got her attention.

He continued, taking advantage of her shocked silence and hissing into her face, "Partners tell each other when they're about to go get themselves killed. _Partners_ will work together and not rush into things behind one another's back without so much as a vest to keep a bullet out of their chests, Mare."

"Marshall-"

"If you're just going to ignore everything we have and throw it all in my face when you rush off without thinking, we might as well no have anything in the first place," he finished bluntly, brutally. A last glimmer of defiance, then he shrugged and sat back down on the bed, head down and spent.

"Having your back is what I _do. _You have to give me a chance to protect you, Mare," he murmured to the floor.

Defiant, because she was Mary. "And what if don't?"

He looked up at her slowly, furrowing his brow while he analyzed her face, haughty from her complete denial of any dependence on him or anyone else. The expression on her face wavered under his gaze, a slight twitch of the mouth, a tilting of the eyes—little things he noticed because he loved her and had her face memorized, from the slight crookedness of her smile to the way the left side of her face was just a little sharper than the right.

His eyes held hers evenly and asked, "Do you _want_ me?"

She set her jaw, staying stubbornly silent.

"Mare," he said, "I need to hear it this time. Do you want me here?"

"Do you want _me_?" she challenged.

Without thinking: "Yes."

And she looked away because she had not heard it—those words—in such a long time, and she found it hard to believe in such a rarity. As if recalling from an eon ago someone who had told her the same thing, she murmured more to herself than to Marshall, "Because you love me."

"Because I love you," he echoed.

It took her all of a second to decide on a response because it had been there all along.

She knelt down so he didn't have to crane his neck to look at her when she spoke, and she told him deliberately, "Then yes, I want you here with me. Because you're my best friend, you're a dead shot, you love me, and I _trust_ you. And if you want to protect me, not that I would recommend it if you plan on keeping the few brain cells you have, you can try."

"Oh, I will," he replied, breaking out into a grin. "Besides, isn't your philosophy, 'Who needs brain cells when you've got a gun?'"

"And the _next_ time I decide to come save your miserable ass," Mary continued, getting up off the floor and flopping down on the bed beside him, "I'll print a permission slip and take it to the damn notary if you want."

"That's all I ask," he said solemnly, finally letting himself laugh when a pillow collided with the back of his head.

And then, somehow, they were laughing and giggling and swearing and running as if nothing had happened at all over the last month, pillows-turned-deadly-projectiles wreaking havoc on all that was holy and sane.

When three weeks of tension had been diffused and neither of them could breath without inhaling a mouthful of feathers, they relocated to Marshall's room and collapsed on his bed, breathless and happy.

"Is this what girls do at slumber parties? In prison?" he asked, reaching over and pulling feathers out of Mary's hair.

She burrowed her face into the sheets sleepily and replied, "Tonight I introduced you to the nice. Wait 'til I show you the naughty."

She tilted her head so she could see Marshall's look of surprise, see his ears go red. She giggled a very un-Mary-like giggle, burrowing her face back into the bed and stretching out sleepily.

It was perhaps because of this half-asleep state of stupor that she reached out, gave Marshall two thumps on the chest, and sighed with amusement, "You're such an idiot… God, I love you."

She did not mean it _that way_, and Marshall knew better than to take it for more than what it was.

But that did not stop him from staying awake long after Mary had fallen asleep, watching tenderly the rise and fall of her breaths—sappy idiot that he was.

**Fin.**

----

***_**Alternate ending**__, written by my roommate while I left my laptop/fic unattended for five minutes. Remember, this is the roommate of mine who suggested, after I asked her for advice on this story, that Mary and Marshall pull a 'Romeo and Juliet.' That said, enjoy:_

"You know what I mean."

He looked at her for one split second. "Mare, you know that-"

"WATCH THE ROAD!" A desperate attempt to push the wheel back.

The darkness had shrouded an "end-of-road" sign, and the car tumbled into the ravine below. In those last few seconds, she had screamed, clinging on to Marshall. As they experienced an unfriendly freefall, she realized why he was the one that was always on her mind, always in her thoughts.

The last words Marshall ever heard from anyone, but most importantly, from Mary, was "I love you."

----

A/N: A few last things!

Thanks: :) Thanks so much, those of you who have read this and stuck with me the whole time and those of you new to supporting this fic. You guy have no idea how much your reviews mean to me: **PeanutTree**, **Tawnyleaf**, **QueenOfHyperbole**, **kathiann**, **drypen**, **epicinsanity101**, and all of you who've been so kind as to humor me through this first attempt of a multi-chaptered fic. And, of course, my dear roommate **J.Z.** whose enthusiasm, despite her morbid suggestions regarding the fate of our beloved Mary and Marshall, forced me to finish this fic in an almost-timely manner.

Beta: Now accepting beta requests.

Request: Now, although I wish I had unlimited time to explore what insane things my mind could turn out, alas I've been busy and don't see any time in the near future to write prolifically. So I'm challenging you, dear readers, to incorporate some of these crack-fiction ideas into a coherent M/M fanfiction (send me a link if you do): **Mary walking in on Marshall showering** (and Marshall, being the girl he is, must freak out), the one time in _Once a Ponzi Time_ that **Marshall uses Mary's real name to address her** (it happens while they're searching through the car and Mary finds the purse), and **Marshall with a tattoo**. :D Yes, Marshall. Yes, tattoo. Ready? Set? Go!

Misc: So like I've said, I've been… busy. And to tell you the truth, I hated how this ending turned out because after like… chapter 5, it's all been written in a rush, and I just wanted to get _finished_ that I think I squished too much into to few chapters. I also... am kind of disappointed with the epilogue... I feel like it should've been sweeter and more m/m, but alas!.

Anyway, I think I'm going to wait a good while before trying to post another fic while it's in progress; so expect some one-shots if I have time, but I'll wait to do more multi-chaptered ones until I'm not drowning in reading evolutionary research papers. Also, some advice on how to write fluff would be nice… because one major, _major_ sticking point I had especially with this fic was that whenever there was action, I'd be able to write pages upon pages… but tender moments had be staring at the computer screen for hours not knowing what to write.

So this is it, folks. Thanks for reading—tell me what you thought! (Reviews are Marshalls to my Marys.) :D


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